


From The Sea

by TreacleA



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Because That Is So A Kink, Briefly Boatfic, Cabin Fic, Canon Typical Violence, Did I Mention That Will Is Pretty Damned Grey?, Fishing Tales, Grey Will, Hannibal Is A Sourpuss, Hannibal is Petty As Fuck, Hannibal is unconscious for a while, Hurt/Comfort, Just Like Will I Promise Not To Kill The Dog, M/M, Murder Humour, OC POV, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Some Light Burglary, Sweet Old Men, There be Doggos, There's no porn just fucking heartache, UST moving into RST, Ultimately Fluffy, We Are All Carl, Will Plays Checkers, Will Reads Aloud To Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-01 15:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15776541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleA/pseuds/TreacleA
Summary: Widowed longshoreman Carl Orr lives alone with his dog Cassy, in an isolated cottage on the shore of the roiling Atlantic. He rarely receives unexpected visitors, let alone houseguests.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zigzagwanderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/gifts).



> I decided a while back that liked the idea of writing a story that viewed the entire Will/Hannibal dynamic through another set of eyes, someone who'd never spent time with them before and so would draw their own conclusions about who they were and what they were to each other. I also had some slightly esoteric, existential idea about Will working stuff out about himself and Hannibal in the company of someone who was more or less a cipher for his own father. So this is that story.
> 
> _Note: I don't do betas and I occasionally switch tense for effect, so sue me._

_ _

_ Out from the eastern sea it came _  
_From the depths of the eastern sea_  
_Crawling at night on its belly_  
_Shaking off waves to be free_  
  
_A thing that belonged at the bottom_  
_Sliding its way to the shore_  
_With eye rimmed around with the sea salt_  
_And blackened and terrible claw_

_ **\- Traditional Gaelic Rhyme -** _

 

Carl has just locked the backdoor and is waiting for the kettle to boil, when Cassy starts to bark. She’s an old dog and sensible, who rarely lets out more than a low whine as a rule, so hearing her so loud and deep-throated so late at night startles him out of his reverie with a jerk.

Walking through to the front room, he bends and lays a hand on her thick neck to silence her, before his eyes skate up and catch on something pale fluttering at the glass of the window. For a moment he isn’t sure what he’s seeing, maybe a rag or a piece of paper caught on the breeze, and then a heavy, wet, dull thud against the glass makes him start back in fright. Beside him, Cassy growls and hushing her again, Carl steps forward in reflexive surprise. His cottage is miles from his nearest neighbour, from the nearest asphalt road even, and yet outside on his porch a man in a stained white shirt is stood, seeming to lean heavily against the window frame.

Moving quickly now to the doorway, he reaches up to unlock the deadbolt as Cassy presses eagerly against his side.

     “Get back girl…”   
  
Pushing at her with his thigh, he slides back the second bolt and pulls the door open wide. Outside the moon is high in the sky, dappling the jet-black surface of the sea ahead of his front yard, but still it’s nowhere light enough to see clearly. Craning his head around the frame, suddenly wary, Carl holds tight to Cassy’s collar as she strains to move past him.

     “Who is that?”

The pale shape of the man leaning against the wall shifts. Bent over at the waist, he holds his right arm straight across his body with one hand against his opposing shoulder, as if he’s bracing it.

     “Are you hurt? What’s happened?”

Reaching out, Carl’s hand grasps onto a bare forearm, and then draws back with a gasp when he feels how cold the other man’s skin is.

     “Jesus man, you’re freezing!”

Without thinking, he turns back into the golden light of the cottage, lunging for the blanket that he kept drapes over the back of his easy chair, and in one movement steps back out and roughly begins to pull it around the other man’s shoulders. Peeling away from the wall, the shaking figure stumbles weakly into his arms, his wet dark head pressing in to speak against Carl’s ear.

     “You’ve got to…” his voice is painfully ragged, low and rough and cut through with pain and fatigue, “Please, you have to help me…”

Stepping backwards through the door, Carl steers him around firmly, his body a warm baffle, while Cassy twists and doubles back on herself, whining excitedly.

     “I will! I will, come inside for God’s sake. Come warm yourself.”

Pressing him down into his easy chair, Carl pulls the blanket tighter around the man’s trembling shoulders, before pushing the front door shut again. In the low glowing light of the room he stares at his unexpected guest in amazement for a moment, before gathering himself  and moving to a nearby cupboard. Uncorking the whiskey he keeps there, he pours two generous fingers into a glass and steps back to his side.

     “Here…”  
  
The man’s hands are shaking like leaves, his head bowed as dark hair drips water onto the carpet at his feet. Prising open his fingers, Carl pushes the glass between them.

     “Come on, drink this. It’ll help.”

Beside him, Cassy moves forward again, suddenly eager, her nose pushing into the pale hands alongside the glass. Carl hisses his annoyance at her, but before he can catch her the man’s fingers move, a slow familiar arc outwards and around her ears. Like muscle memory. Cassy’s tongue comes out, warm and pink, bathing his knuckles, and his head moves, nods. There’s a low ragged sigh, and then the glass goes up to his lips.

Exhaling with relief, Carl feels his body sag a little on his feet.

     “That’s right. Good.”

Reaching out, he lays an unsteady palm on the man’s shoulder.

     “Just stay there now. Breathe easy. You’re safe here.”

The man’s face tips up, and for the first time he sees him clearly. Wide, cloud-blue eyes in a pale wraith of a face, and on his right cheek a deep terrible gash, torn flesh turned blue with cold, and oozing deep-red.

Carl sucks in a breath,

     “Jesus man!! What happened to your face?”

The eyes shutter, lashes wet and long against his cheekbones and he swallows thickly.  
  
     “We…we were in the water. I got cut…”

     “We?” Straightening in shock, Carl’s eyes dart to the window, “You walked up here from the beach?”

The man’s head drops again, a deep shudder passing through him. Pressing in closer to his knees, Cassy moans softly in her throat, a low concerned sound.

     “I can’t move him, my shoulder…” his voice grits through the words, the face turning up to look at him again with a wild desperate look, “I don’t know…if he’s even…”

The path down to the beach is rough and uneven, and Carl can’t remember the last time he’d had to hurry down it at any kind of speed, let alone in the pitch black. Bouncing over the stones ahead of him, the beam of his little flashlight is barely enough to illuminate more than the grass at either side of the track, but when he gets to the beach the moonlight is bright, throwing its pale light off the sea and outlining everything with silver. His eyes dart along the length of the shoreline, heart thrashing in his chest, until he finally spots it: a long, dark shape lying half in and half out of the breakers, thirty meters or so down. Breaking into a run, he covers the distance in just a few seconds, and throws himself down on the wet sand beside the body.

The man’s face is ghostly white, the sharp angles of his cheekbones giving him the ghastly appearance of a skull, and pressing two fingers against his neck, Carl holds his breath and feels for something, anything that will tell him he isn’t too late. When it finally comes, the tiny movement under ice-cold skin feels like it kickstarts his own heartbeat back up.  
  
     “Thank Christ…” he breathes, and then his hands are moving under the man’s arms, pulling him upright, and shoving the loose stiff lengths of his legs under his body in a bid to make him stand.

His head lolling loose on his neck, the man groans, a deep agonised sound like an animal, and looking down Carl immediately sees why. His left leg is hanging awkwardly sideways at the knee, obviously broken, and he can’t support weight on it. Bracing his own legs, Carl bows under the taller man’s frame, his stocky ex-longshoreman’s body attempting to bear him for a moment before sagging downwards in defeat. The guy is a dead weight, soaked and half unconscious with a busted leg, and there’s no way the two of them are making it back up the path together like this.   
  
In the darkness a warm shape presses itself against his knees, and suddenly there’s Cassy’s familiar white teeth and eyes glinting at him in the moonlight. Raising his head from his chest, Carl’s eyes attempt to focus in the gloom on the shape ahead of him. Walking unsteadily but resolutely upright, the man in the white shirt limps towards him along the shore, reaching out his left arm from his side as he nears. Sliding it behind their companion’s back underneath Carl’s own, he draws in a deep pained breath and then braces himself alongside him.

Neither speak, and there’s no further sound from their charge as they make their way back up the beach, just their own heavy laboured breathing and the shuffle of their feet over the low rolling crash of the waves.

The last twenty meters they virtually have to drag him, up the steps of the porch and then - at his direction - through a low doorway into the small bedroom off the sitting room. Panting, Carl motions with his head for them to lower him carefully, mindful of his leg and the obvious wound on his right side, but the white-shirted man is now clearly exhausted, the last reserves of his strength gone, and letting go he slowly crumples to his knees next to the bed.

Stepping back himself, Carl’s lungs heave and he presses fists to his hips.

     “Jesus, boy. He’s in even worse shape that you.”

Curiously, his hand moves out to push up the unconscious man’s sodden and torn sweater. The flesh underneath is a pale translucent blue, livid with veins and awash with watery blood, and another inch or two upwards reveals why. Carl’s breath stoppers in his throat at the unmistakable sight of an exit wound.

     “Jesus H Christ…”  
  
He breathes out in a quick gasp, his eyes widening before darting to the first man’s face.

     “What the hell happened here?”

The man on the floor raises his head. His gaze wanders, unfixed, without meeting Carl’s, moving first to the door - seeming to hesitate over Cassy stood in it - before slowly coming to rest on his companion’s face. As it stays rooted there his expression alters, seeming to shift like a kaleidoscope; first furiously angry, then desperately sad, before finally settling on something unbearable. Lost. Raw, Fearful.

     “I tried to kill us.”

His voice is soft but surprisingly even, and Carl opens his mouth to speak before swallowing awkwardly.

The man on the bed twitches in his sleep, his lips falling open, and reaching down he pulls the folded quilt from the foot of the bed up and over his body, covering him. He breathes out again, slower this time.

     “Well, luckily for you…looks like you failed. On both counts.”

The man on the floor makes a sound that could be a sob or a laugh, and says something quietly, half to himself.

     “What’s that?”   
  
And blue-grey eyes turn up to his, with a smile like the edge of a razor blade.

     “Guess I didn’t hold the devil well enough,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

     “We should call someone…”

The adrenaline and shock of the last half hour beginning to subside, Carl’s brain finally seems to reboot back into logical status. The man on the floor still has his face turned up towards him, his eyes slightly narrowed now, and the old man shivers at what he sees in them.

     “Don’t.” 

His voice is suddenly as solid as granite, the softness and tremor from before now gone. Sliding his legs back underneath him, he rises in a slow but surprisingly steady movement to stand in front of him, hands held loosely at his sides.

     “You can’t do that. I’m sorry…” 

There’s a pause, and his eyebrows lift just a fraction - questioning without questioning - and Carl’s throat tightens.

     “Carl. Carl Orr. It’s just me here. I live alone.”

The dark-haired man’s eyes move over his face, the slightest frown creasing his brow. His expression shifts again and Carl has the strangest feeling that he’s just peeped into his skull, seen all his thoughts lying in a tangle there like so much rope and tackle. Then he looks past him, to the door.

     “Not alone.”

And Cassy whines softly in her throat, her tail thumping the floor in acknowledgement as she shuffles forward to her master’s side. Catching her collar, Carl pulls her against his leg. Now the need for immediate action seemed to be over, a deep sense of trepidation had begun to fill him about both these men, and for the first time since he had come to live in the cottage its isolation feels like a liability.

     “This is Cassy,” he presses a hand to her neck protectively, “It’s just me and her. No-one else comes out here, just my son-in-law Mike once a month.”

He hesitates, wondering at himself for saying all this, and then feels his thoughts jump. He pictures the telephone handset in the sitting room, ten paces away at most. He could step back, pull the door closed, grab it and lock himself in the head while he calls the cops. And then what? Maybe forty minutes wait until they get there? He sucks a breath in, pictures his service weapon in the locker under his bed in the room upstairs. Unloaded and the shells in a box in the bedside cupboard. 

     “I promise you Carl, you wouldn’t make it."

The man looks into his face and his expression is like a window thrown open to the night. He’s understanding, sad even.

     “I don’t want to hurt you,” his brow creases more deeply, the sadness warring with something else, and then adds, “Please don’t make me.”

Carl breathes out and the feeling is strangely like one of relief. For a moment he feels nineteen again, standing in the darkness of the jungle staring into the face of his commanding officer while the night breathes dark and thick and humid all around them.

     “OK,” he says, and lets his hand slip from Cassy’s neck.

The dog moves forward past him, pushing her snout into the other man’s hand and again he sees the small movement, a reflexive touch that feel stupidly reassuring to him. Something human.

     “Show me where the phone is.”

They walk back through into the sitting room, and Carl gestures with a hand towards the telephone handset on the sideboard. The man’s eyes move along the floor to the single point of entry for the cable, before reaching down and carefully pulling the unit’s plug from the socket. He detaches the connector from the handset and pushes it into his pant’s pocket.

     “You got a cell?”

And Carl hesitates for a second before replying,

     “I don’t carry it around with me.”

The man’s face is impassive again, waiting, and after a moment Carl steps carefully away to the side. His heavy waterproof coat is hung on the back of the front door, and slipping his hand into the pocket he withdraws the cell. It’s an old Nokia flip-phone, and as he holds it out he fancies he sees the ghost of a wry smile on the other man’s face.

     “Not a fan of modern technology.”  
  
It’s not really a question, and the old man huffs an awkward laugh.

     “My son-in-law wanted to give me one of those ‘smart’ ones for Christmas. I keep telling him no.”

There’s a brief moment of recognition on the other man’s face and then he straightens, as if suddenly becoming aware of the softening of his position. He pockets the cell alongside the phone cable.

     “You have a radio Carl?”

A breath catches in the old man’s throat. An idea he hadn’t even considered until this moment and yet the younger man had looked at him and seen it, had thought to ask. Raising his eyebrows, he attempts a look of innocence,

     “Sure, I can’t get more than the local channels though. A good country station sometimes…”

     “You know that’s not what I mean.”

And there it is again, that creepy as hell feeling that his thoughts are completely transparent, that they’re appearing above his head somehow and that the guy can just see them hanging there. He feels vulnerable suddenly, frail even, and the reality of his situation suddenly slams into him like a cold forty foot wave.

     “Please. Just take whatever you need. I’m not going to call anyone. Just take what you need and go,” his fingers stray to his own pant’s pocket, withdrawing the key fob there, “Here. Take my truck. Theres plenty of gas in it…take you and your friend wherever you need to go.”

The other man shifts on his feet, and his eyes darken almost imperceptibly. Reaching out again, he takes the keys. Slips them into the opposite pocket from Carl’s cell. 

     “Show me the radio,” he says.

He keeps the old Marine VHF in the room his wife used to call ‘the boot room’, a small walk-in closet at the rear of the house by the kitchen. Opening the door to it, Carl stands back and lets the other man see inside. The room isn’t big enough for both of them, and he watches as his visitor’s eyes slide to regard him carefully, weighing the possibility of duplicity. When he seems to see nothing, he steps past him and carefully lays a hand on top of the radio unit.

     “Aalborg.”   
  
His mouth twitches, and Carl feels a small warmth expand in his chest at the sight, his shoulders loosening. It makes no sense, but the fact that this man instantly knows the make of the SF unit is like a comforter thrown around cold shoulders.

     “Don’t make them like this any more,” he says and is gifted with a small nod of agreement.  
  
Reaching down, the man grips the flex connecting the handset to the main box and with a movement that is both firm and respectful, he detaches it. Coiling the soft black wiring around his hand, he lifts the handset away and palms it for a moment, before bringing it down with an earsplitting crack on the edge of the desk.

The handset falls into pieces, and pushing his fingertips into the earpiece the man pulls out first the small receiver then the microphone, dropping them both the floor before grinding down on them with his heel. Pieces of old plastic skitter and bounce into the corners, but Carl can’t seem to shift his gaze from the other man’s face, the cloud-blue eyes that hold such a intense stew of emotions.

The silence left in the wake of the sound feels cavernous. Carl clears his throat,

     “We should probably go check on your…”   
  
He hesitates, not knowing how to complete the sentence, but to his relief the other man just nods. Whatever emotion he’d just been channelling seems to have dissipated almost as quickly as it arose, and now he just looks exhausted again, close to falling down on his feet.

     “You ever dealt with a bullet wound before?”

And Carl nods, because he doesn’t see the point of denying anything now.

     “In Xuan Loc. My buddy Joe Hawley was hit. He was our medic.”

The dark-haired man regards him steadily, like he sees and hears the whole thing playing out in front of him on a movie reel. Joe bleeding out into dusty rubble, his own hands thick with blood and dirt as he rips into sterile bandages, packing the wound. Joe’s low gasps of pain, the smell of iodine.

     “His bowel perforated. He didn’t make it,” Carl says, as if supplying the ending will shut it off, stop the memory that’s been set running in him. 

The man nods,

     “That’s not going to happen here,” he says quietly.

Back in the guest room, the second man hasn’t moved. His damp silver-grey hair lays in tendrils over his pale forehead, and there is next to no colour in his cheeks. Walking to his side, Carl reaches down and presses fingers to the same spot as before, holds his breath again as he wills it to still be there.

     “Well, he’s alive. Pulse is damned slow though. Weak,” he straightens, tries a last appeal to good sense, “He needs a damned doctor. Blood. Someone who knows what he’s doing…”

     “He’s strong. He’s been through worse.”

Carl’s eyebrows shoot up, but the other man just inclines his head at the look.

     “Believe me. He’ll survive,” and his eyes shift, moving to the sleeping man’s face almost tentatively, like he’s afraid looking too closely might burn him, “He always does.”

Cassy is back, pressing against Carl’s leg. Her snout moves along his hip before moving to the side of the bed and forward, no doubt attracted by the smell of blood and reaching down her master catches her, pulls her back. Sighs.

     “We need to cut off this sweater.”

The scissors move through the fabric with a harsh gritty sound, sand and shrunken fibres. Carl cuts up through the centre, up the man’s chest, peeling back the sides to reveal the ragged hole of the exit wound. He grimaces, unable to stop himself, and darts a look to the other man’s face, which is impassive again.

     “You were right. Looks like a through and through, he might be lucky. High enough to have nicked his lung though.”   
  
Bending his head, the old man lays his ear to the chest and listens. Inside the sound is almost imperceptible, rasping, irregular, but it’s something. No sounds of crackling or liquid in the lungs, and in the background the heavy slow rhythmic thump of a heartbeat. It’s a ridiculously reassuring sound. Carl breathes out, long and slow, and straightens.

     “The leg may be our main problem then. It’s a bad break. Marrow gets into his bloodstream…”

     “Fat embolism. It's pretty rare. I think I can set the break. We just need to keep an eye on him. Make sure his temperature doesn’t spike.”   
  
The dark-haired man’s gaze is resting on the other’s face now, and for a moment it seems like he’s lost again. Warring emotions that briefly fight and then cancel each other out. Turning his body slightly towards Carl, he slides him a look.

     “Can I trust you to fetch me some water? Something to flush out the wound?”

Carl hesitates and then nods, 

     “I can do that. There’s gauze and tape in the kit in the cupboard.”

The other man stands immobile for a moment, and then a deep tremor passes through him, shaking him physically from head to toe. He raises a hand to his face and scrubs the palm over his features with a sudden fierce intensity, his voice desperately unsteady.

     “What the fuck have I done…”

And he folds down onto the corner of the bed like a puppet with the strings cut, his hands splaying out across the wet coverlet, and fingers reaching.

     “What the fuck have I done to us Hannibal.”


	3. Chapter 3

They spread towels out on the bed underneath him, a small plastic sheet too just in case the blood hasn’t soaked all the way through and ruined the mattress yet. When it comes to it though, Carl can’t seem to keep his hand steady enough and has to step back a pace so his visitor can take the baster from him. Water floods in and out of the tattered flesh, washing pink fluid, grit and sand out and over the man’s skin, and they both watch as it slides down his sides and soaks darkly into the bed around him. At his right hip, deeper red water pools out and into the towels, and for the first time in half an hour their patient makes a sound; a low guttural groan, that his throat constricts around.

The dark-haired man only frowns, his gaze flicking up and then back down to the site of the wound.

     “Help me roll him,” he says, and together they tug and push at the heavy mass of muscle and bone, turning the other man over onto his left side.

The remaining cut away parts of the jersey stick to his back, and gently Carl peels them away. Strands of fabric have been pushed into the wound where the bullet pierced him, and now they wash out in a seemingly endless stream of warm meaty-smelling water, diluted iodine and fragments of tissue. The smell and sight combined are nauseating, but as the flow subsides he finds he feel curiously calm, and reaches for the nearby packet of gauze with a purposeful hand.

     “OK. Hand me the tape.”

Fifteen minutes more work on both sides and he sits back, breathing heavily, to survey his handiwork. Both sides are dressed neatly, heavily packed with sterile gauze and taped in place, and the last of the bleeding has definitely slowed. Feeling for a pulse at his throat again, Carl frowns. Thready and weak.

     “Thank you.”

He looks up, and the dark-haired man’s eyes are regarding him from a hollow, exhausted face. Carl nods in reply, then chances a question.

     “His name’s Hannibal?”

Something flares in the other man’s expression; surprise, fearful alarm, that just as quickly is covered and extinguished. He makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement.

     “After the general right?” Carl’s mouth quirks, “The father of strategy?”

A soft breath of a laugh,

     “Actually, I’ve never asked him. Maybe.”

Carl shrugs, his bone-deep weariness making him suddenly less wary,

     “And what about you?”

He reaches to gather the rest of the gauze in his hand, the tape, and then indicates towards the man’s own wounds. There’s a moment’s hesitation, and then the shoulders drop a little, resignation coming at last. Half-standing, he moves along the side of the bed until he’s within Carl’s reach, and then resettles at his side, torn cheek turned towards him. Opening a new pack of antiseptic swabs, the old man raises his hand, silently waiting for permission.

     “Will,” the man says instead, and his eyelids flicker closed as Carl slowly and carefully begins to clean, “My name is Will.”

It’s 2am when he’s finally done. The knife wound, although horrific to look at, is at least a clean cut, seemingly executed with a razor sharp blade. Thoroughly cleaned and taped shut with six Steri-strips, Carl considers it might even heal into a fairly dashing scar, and if not could at least be hidden by the younger man’s dark beard. The shoulder wound is another matter though. Ragged and surrounded by old scar tissue from a previous injury, he sighs and frowns his way through cleaning and dressing it, silently wishing he had some way to force this strange, taciturn man to take himself to the nearest ER and seek proper help.

     “He’s hit bone here, you feel that?”  
  
And he presses in firmly as he secures the patch, until he sees Will wince,

     “This needs more than just iodine and gauze. You both do. You get an infection, or he does, all this will have been for nothing.”

The other man only gives a small bob of his head in concession, and Carl feels a ripple of annoyance shoot through him. It’s the look on his face, like the one Mike wears whenever he offers him his advice, and glowering, he pulls his forearm up to shoulder height with a little less care than he’s been showing up till now. Secures the bandage around the joint somewhat more roughly.

     “Your body mean so little to you?”  
  
His eyes skate up to take in the thick scar at Will’s temple, then down to the devastating one spanning the width of his belly. Watching him with weary amusement, the other man’s mouth curves into the hint of a smile.

     “Mostly done to me, not by me. But I take your point.”  
  
Reaching for the clean t-shirt Carl has laid on the bed, he moves his right arm stiffly into the sleeve, biting down on his lower lip with the pain, before pushing his head through. Raising his good left arm, he pushes fingers back through his hair. The gesture is infinitely weary.  
  
     “I need to sleep,” his eyes drift sideways, “And so do you.”

Carl swallows drily. Most of the fear has gone from him now, but he’s not dumb enough to relax completely just yet. Between them, Cassy opens her mouth and yawns, her eyes moving from one face to the next expectantly.

     “Your bedroom have a lock on the door?”

Will stands, and slowly, stiffly Carl joins him, turning his head with a confused frown.

     “Sure. You want I should lock myself in there?”

The other man head tilts, a small laugh.

     “How about I lock you in for now, from the outside? That way I can be sure I know where to find you if I need you in the night.”

Carl coughs, embarrassed for a moment, and then catches Will’s eyes. There’s warmth there, amusement even, and stepping out of the door they make their way up the short flight of stairs to the landing in a strangely companionable silence.

At his bedroom door, Will pauses to duck his head inside, taking in the tiny windows, the small ensuite. His gaze comes to rest on the nightstand.

     “You keep a gun under the bed Carl?” he says softly.

The old man hesitates for a moment, and then nods.

     “In a lockbox. No real need these days, but I got into the habit when the kids were young.”

Will nods,

     “Shells in the nightstand?”

     “Uh huh.”

Crossing to the head of the bed, the younger man silently slides the drawer open and extracts the box there. Everything about his movements is calm and relaxed, even courteous, and Carl can’t help but feel reassured. Returning to his side, Will looks down at the floor for a moment frowning before lifting his chin, his eyes again seeming to see straight through to his thoughts.

     “I’m sorry this is happening to you Carl…”   
  
He pauses, corrects himself,  
  
     “I’m sorry that we’re happening to you. I wish I could tell you everything was going to be ok, and that when you wake up tomorrow we’ll be gone, but I can’t. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Tomorrow, or the next day, or any of the days after that…”

He stops talking and the expression on his face is suddenly wide open again, not afraid, but almost surprised, like he’s maybe just realised something profound. It’s just a split second and then he gathers himself back together, draws in an unsteady breath.

     “I can’t promise you anything, except that - as long as you do as I ask - I’ll treat both you and Cassy with respect, and do my best to make sure we leave your home more or less exactly as we found it.”

And Carl nods, because it’s all he can think to do right now. Between them, Cassy waves her tail a few times gently before stepping in to take her usual place in her bed by the window, and taking a pace backwards himself, he watches as Will gently pushes the door closed behind him. There’s a pause, and then the sound of the key turning in the lock.

Carl waits until he hears his footsteps descending the stairs, and then turns and walks over to sit down on his bed. On the nightstand the clock says 2.30am, and lowering himself onto his side, he stares at the glowing face for a while before gently easing off his shoes and letting them drop to the floor. From her bed Cassy gives a soft grunt of contentment, pushing at the bedding with outstretched toes before settling in for the night, and out of habit he automatically reaches out for the light switch before slowly withdrawing his hand.

Downstairs he hears the sound of the toilet flushing then, after five minutes or so, the low even sound of a voice - Will’s voice - as if he’s conducting half of a telephone conversation. It takes him a moment or two to recognise the rhythm of the words, by which time his eyes are beginning to slide closed despite himself. Carl can’t remember the last time he fell asleep listening to someone reading aloud, but his last conscious thought as he finally slips into darkness is how wonderfully soothing the sound of it is.


	4. Chapter 4

Carl dreams of tending a garden. In it, he’s knelt low on the warm soft soil, his hands pressing in amongst the roots of the plants, fingertips carefully teasing out weeds. The sun is golden and hot on his shoulders, and all around him are the quiet sound of insects whirring in the air. He smiles, and stretches, sweat damp on his upper lip. Then quietly, firmly, a voice at his shoulder demands his attention.

     “Carl?”

And he opens his eyes, his face still warm from the sun.

     “Carl.”

At the foot of his bed the dark-haired man - Will - is stood looking at him. The t-shirt he is wearing is damp with perspiration.

     “I need your help,” he says.

The smell of fever in the guest room is unmistakable, and one that immediately sends him back five years to his wife’s last week. Walking quickly to the unconscious man’s bedside, Carl lays a tentative hand on his forehead and is shocked to feel the heat emanating from him. It doesn’t seem possible that someone's skin can reach such temperature while they lie so seemingly calm and silent.

     “This isn’t good.”

At his side he feels Will’s body react, a intense tightening of his core muscles, hands balling into fists at his side.

     “I don’t know how long he’s been like this.”   
  
His voice sounds like it’s being forced out from between his teeth and Carl risks a look at him. His expression looks agonised and fearful.

     “He was still ok at 3.30. I only fell asleep for a few hours…”

     “He needs a doctor…”

     “No!”

The ferocity of the younger man’s response startles him for a moment, and Carl moves back from the bed. It only takes a moment though for his fear to be replaced with a jolt of anger, and he glares at him.

     “He could _die_! He needs to be in a hospital! He needs antibiotics! Whatever you’ve done, either of you, it can’t be worth risking his life keeping him here.”

Will’s face contorts, both hands coming up to press heels into his eye sockets, and he shakes his head vigorously. It’s hard to tell if he’s angry or just plain scared.

     “You… you don't know what…”

     “I know a dying man when I see one!”

     “HE IS **NOT** GOING TO FUCKING **DIE**!!”

And this time the fear there is unmistakable. Both hands come out to grab roughly at Carl’s shirt, the look in the other man’s eyes instantly darkening to something truly terrifying. Pushing him back against the wall, Will’s face moves in towards him until their noses are only an inch apart.

     “Do you hear me? He’s  not going to fucking die.”

By all rights, the softer tone should be less disturbing but it isn’t, and Carl can’t help but hear the threat that seems to hang in the air after he’s spoken. As if realising the same thing, Will holds his gaze for a few seconds longer, before slowly releasing his hold. He doesn’t move back yet though, and this close Carl fancies he can almost see the movement of his heartbeat through the damp fabric stretched across his chest. 

     “Where do you take Cassy when she’s sick?”

The question seems so random that it takes him moment or two to register the meaning of it. Taking a much needed breath, Carl swallows nervously,

     “Busey. Little town about 10 klicks from here, has an animal hospital. Not too big, the vet’s only there Monday to Thursday.”

To his relief Will’s breathes out, slow and measured, his shoulders relaxing like he’s carefully gathering himself back together again.

     “Today’s Sunday.”

     “Uh huh.”

There’s a pause and his eyes dart first to the window, then down to the face of the man on the bed, then back to his own, and it’s as if a whole world of possibilities have been considered and discarded in just those three seconds.

     “Ok. Let’s go. You’re coming with me.”

The journey only takes around thirty minutes - the first seven of them being the slow pot-holed half mile to the end of his drive - but by the time they reach Busey the sky has already started to lighten in the east, meaning it must be just after 7.00am. Driving slowly through the town’s outskirts, Carl keeps his eyes peeled for anyone else out on the streets but so far no-one seems to be stirring, and he’s honestly not sure whether that’s a good thing for him or a bad one.

     “It’s just up here past the next turn.”

Swinging the truck’s wheel, he takes them over into the right lane, indicating the building with his head. Beside him, Will gives a small nod, his face partially hidden under the peak of the cap he’s borrowed and Carl looks at him expectantly, as if awaiting instructions. After a moment though, the other man shoots him pointed look.

     “There’s a lot around the back right? For when people bring in bigger animals? Just pull up round there.”

The lot is almost deserted, just the hospital’s own vehicle parked up alongside a smaller truck, and pulling up behind them Carl kills the engine. Leaning forward in his seat Will looks up at the small building, his eyes moving quickly along the roofline until he seems to see something he’s looking for. Following his gaze, Carl sees the tiny skylight above the main office, and glances at him sideways in disbelief.

     “You’re gonna try and get through _that_?”

Will’s lips press together into a thin firm line, but he doesn’t reply. Hitching his t-shirt up at the back, he pulls it down to cover the butt of Carl’s revolver in his waistband and opens the passenger door, before silently extending his hand.

     “Keys,” he says quietly.

Meeting the younger man’s eyes through the windshield, Carl frowns at him in annoyance as Will slowly raises the truck’s key fob to eye height and engages the alarm, before making his way across the deserted lot towards the building. At either side of the cab, the truck has small motion sensors, and the old man huffs irritably at the realisation that he’s effectively been made a prisoner In his own vehicle. 

Outside he can see Will moving quietly along the side of the building, pausing once to check around the perimeter, before vaulting up onto the dumpster that stands alongside the office. It’s a short jump from there to the roof and he makes it easily, his physical strength and sense of balance evident as he pulls himself up using the wooden frame around the skylight. Apparently supporting his entire weight easily with one hand, Carl sees him reach down to his pants pocket to extract the thin metal rule he’s taken from his toolbox, before deftly working it into the gap around the window. It’s delicate work, but he can see just from the look on the other man’s face and the purpose behind his movements that he’s done this kind of thing before, maybe many times, and Carl finds himself wondering yet again exactly what his story is. Will doesn’t seem to have the face of a career criminal, or the temperament, and yet everything that has happened so far indicates that both he and his companion are wanted men, desperate to avoid law enforcement at all costs. Sighing softly, he considers yet again the idea that keeping himself so isolated from society sometimes has its pitfalls. Maybe if he just turned on the TV occasionally or read anything other than Tom Clancy novels, he might have some idea who the two men were.

A movement on the roof brings his attention back to Will’s progress and his lips part in astonishment as he sees him push the skylight open wide, before reaching in with both arms and pulling himself through it. The large window at the front of the office is covered by a window sticker, but behind it he can just see the shape of the younger man’s body as he hangs from the frame for a moment before dropping down to the floor. Letting out a soft whistle, Carl just manages to stop himself from shaking his head in amazement. All in all, it’s taken Will just seven minutes to break into the building, and he’s not sure that he isn’t more than a little impressed with that.

From what he remembers of the interior of the clinic all the medical supplies are kept in lockers in the surgery behind the office, and he watches as the dark figure moves along the wall and through the door towards it and then out of sight. Time crawls and Carl realises he’s breathing far more shallowly than normal, his heart rate a little elevated as a result, and so he makes an effort to fill his lungs and calm himself. He’s just managed to forcibly relax his shoulders when a movement at one side of the lot catches his eye.

A young black man in coveralls carrying a wrapped sandwich is walking - sleepy looking and loose-limbed - across the asphalt towards him. A quick glance at his clothes and the signage on the truck in front, and its obvious to Carl that it’s his. Darting a look back towards the office, the old man feels his heart jump back to an even faster rate than before, his throat constricting as he sees a small movement inside. The shape of Will’s head as he turns from side to side, maybe looking for something else he might need. He moves his eyes again, and sees that - having reached his truck - the young man has paused in moving his the key towards the door, his face turned away from him towards the building as if he hears something. 

And when he thinks about it afterwards, he really has no idea why he does what he does, but without thinking Carl reaches out and quickly touches his hand to the truck’s motion sensor.

The shriek of the alarm is deafening, and in front of him the young man almost leaps out of his skin. His eyes wide, he lights on Carl’s face with a look of shock, first at seeing someone sat there and then at the frankly earsplitting noise that doesn’t seem to be stopping. Jogging quickly round to his window, he raps on it hard with his knuckles,

     “Hey!! What’s a matter? Hey mister! Can’t you turn it off?”

Carl’s gaze slides past him. At the frame of the skylight he sees first Will’s hands appear then his head, then after a few moments the rest of his body is lifted up and out and - in one easy movement - he slides down and drops from the roof to the lot below. 

Outside his window the young guy is staring at him with a puzzled frown,

     “Hey, you want to open up? Maybe I can pull the fuse or something?”

And then with a sharp ‘blip’ of sound, the alarm shuts off. 

     “Sorry Dad.” 

Will’s voice is warm and apologetic, his open-handed stance the perfect facsimile of embarrassment and amusement. The small canvas backpack he’d taken in with him now bulges full on his back, and dropping it to the asphalt he gives the young man in the coveralls a slow eye-roll.

     “Forgot to tell him I haven’t fixed that.”

He reaches out and opens up the driver-side door, and the look he gives Carl is an unnervingly steady one.

     “OK old man, slide over. I’ll drive back ok?”

     “Jesus! Almost scared the life out of me! You got a broken detector there I think!” 

The young guy is laughing now, frowning and ducking his head into the cab, and for a moment he thinks Will will move, block him or something, but he does nothing, just smiles easy and affable. His back is turned toward Carl now, and reaching back casually he tucks the tail of his tee back into his waistband under the gun. The gesture isn’t too complicated to understand: don’t make any more trouble.

     “Yeah. Said I’d replace it last week, got the part just haven’t fitted it yet.”

They both nod, a casual moment of understanding, and then Will is sliding up and into the seat Carl has just vacated. Looking at him sideways, he gives him a slow crooked grin and then reaches a hand out. Lays it down heavy on his knee.

     “You ok Dad? Didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

And Carl just shakes his head, because he still hasn’t worked out exactly what just happened here and he suspects he doesn’t really want to.


	5. Chapter 5

Cassy meets them at the door, tail waving in greeting even as Will pushes hurriedly past her to get back to the guest room. Reaching down to pet her briefly, Carl follows him with his eyes. They’ve barely spoken on the journey back, and yet it feels as if there’s been a palpable shift in their dynamic, almost as if Will had somehow gleaned his motivation in setting off the truck alarm and now considers him an ally rather than a captive.

Closing the door behind them, Carl walks slowly over and stands watching him from the doorway. Emptying the backpack on the bed, Will sorts through the contents with intense methodical focus before extracting a length of IV line and a cannula from the tangle of equipment, and then one of several clear bags of fluid. He looks up at the wall above Hannibal’s head, and then back down at the bag in his hand with a frown of consternation.

     “How about a coat hanger?”

Stepping over to the wardrobe, Carl pulls out one of the wire hangers and hands it to him, and seeing what he’s thinking, Will nods and carefully threads the loop on the top of the IV bag over the hook, before attaching the line. He tears open the cannula pack with hasty trembling fingers, reaching out for the end of the IV, and the older man watches him for a moment with before once again stepping forward.

     “Here, like this.”

Taking the cannula from him, he slots it carefully into the end of the short catheter tube, then slots the IV line into the drip chamber, before connecting the other end to the bag of antibiotics. Then, reaching up, he removes the picture of the sailboat that’s hanging above the bed and hooks the hanger over the nail there, tests it’s solid. Then he turns back to look at Will.

     “I’ve only ever put these back in when they’ve fallen out. You want to let me try?”

The younger man’s brow creases deeply, and he appears to chew anxiously on his lower lip. He doesn’t look at Carl, his eyes staying fixed on the ghostly pale face of the man in the bed as if he’s fighting some silent war with himself. A moment passes, and then he nods.

Hannibal’s arm feels strange in Carl’s hands, thick corded muscle and hair where he remembers only pale, paper-thin skin and the familiar freckles of his wife. He presses down into the soft damp flesh in the crook of his elbow and gently flexes his forearm down, searching under the surface for the blue line of a vein. Beside him, Will reaches out, hesitating briefly before wrapping his fingers through the the unconscious man’s own to form a tight fist, and after a second or two he sees it: the vein glowing out brightly against the white surrounding it. Holding his breath, he presses the tip of the cannula needle to skin, pushes in and carefully slides it forward. To his surprise and relief, blood instantly wells at the other end, and he presses down firmly on the embedded tip while he screw in the catheter.

     “We’re suppose to flush this with saline, but I guess…”

Shaking his head slightly, Will chews silently again on his lip, his eyes moving to the bag hanging above them and then back along the line Carl has just inserted.

     “This’ll either work or it won’t,” his lips thin again, “Let’s just hope it does.”

They sit together afterwards for a long time. Will in one chair on one side of the bed, and Carl on the other with Cassy at his feet. Looking across at the younger man’s averted face, he studies him now with open curiosity. Will looks completely exhausted, his eyes periodically slipping closed before flashing open again with a kind of constant repeated jolt of vigilance. His hands lay loosely in his lap, the fingers flexing over some mysterious imaginary task, and the old man watches them too for a while before finally thinking to venture a question.

     “What were you reading to him?”

Will stirs, his head rolling back on his neck. It seems like it takes a second or two for him to focus, and then another three or four to realise what Carl is talking about. When he does, his lips twitch and he motions towards the nightstand.

     “Moby Dick,” a frown, “My dad used to read it to me at night when I couldn’t sleep. And last night, I couldn’t…I saw it up there on the shelf,” he voice softens, “Hope you didn’t mind.”

Carl huffs a laugh at the humour of that, and after a second to reflect Will does too.

     “He like books?”

Will’s eyebrows rise questioningly, and then he follows the older man’s gaze back over to the bed. Under the coverlet, Hannibal’s chest rises and falls with the tiniest of movements, and silently they both watch it.

     “He does. He had a copy of it, a first edition back in Bal…” his voice trails off, and the frown deepens, “I don’t imagine he’d ever even cracked it open, but he’s never been the sort of person who collects things just for the sake of having them. For their…monetary value.”

There’s a trace of bitterness in his tone with the last words, some kind of deep hurt that hasn’t been dealt with, and hearing it Carl shifts uncomfortably. It feel intimate somehow, like something he shouldn’t know about.

     “Well. It’s a good book,” he says flatly and after a moment or two Will replies, his voice equally as flat.

     “It is,” he says.

At ten Carl offers to make them coffee and something to eat, and hearing him the younger man just nods his silent assent. Any suggestion that he should be watched, or that he needs to stay within Will’s direct lie of sight seems to have been forgotten now. Sat low in his chair, the other man looks entirely lost in his thoughts, his eyes unfocused as he stares blankly at the wall above Hannibal’s head. Even his hands in his lap are mostly still now, lying softly opened on his thighs, the thumbs gently stroking the fabric, and for the first time Carl notices that he wears a plain gold wedding band on his left hand. The sight of it is strangely jarring to him.

They eat their sandwiches in silence, Cassy’s occasional soft whines the only sound in the room, and when they’re done Carl takes their plates and washes them at the kitchen sink before returning to wordlessly refill Will’s coffee cup.

     “Thank you.”

The younger man’s cloud-blue eyes move up to meet his, and he nods an acknowledgement.

     “Ok if I turn on the radio for a while?”

     “Sure go ahead,” Will tilts his head, eyes half closing, “Just not the country station though, ok Carl?”

The music drones on softly throughout the afternoon, and after half an hour of wandering around the house feeling antsy, Carl settles for following his usual Sunday routine and sits down with the current scale model he’s working on. Several enjoyable hours pass before even knows it, and it’s only when he’s carefully applying glue to the base of the ship’s bridge that he becomes aware of Will standing nearby watching him.

     “That the Indianapolis?”

Carl looks up, and the curiously warm smile the younger man is wearing catches him by surprise.

     “Portland class heavy cruiser. But yeah…” he squints down at the bow he hasn’t yet painted the name on, “You know your ships.”

Will’s mouth moves, a soft pursing of the lips, and he inclines his head,

     “I can’t tell but I think his temperature’s down some. Help me change the bag over?”

Together they gently roll him over onto his left side again, just far enough so that Carl can peel away the dressing that he’d applied the night before. Under the gauze the flesh is a ghastly purplish-blue, oozing opaque fluid and blood, but when he bends closer to sniff there’s no smell coming from the wound. Meeting Will’s eyes, he gives a small nod.

     “Could be that the fever was from the break. Said we might have to keep an eye on that.”

Will lifts his chin in silent agreement. At some point in the night he’s set Hannibal’s broken leg and splinted it with two wooden walking canes, firmly secured with lengths of torn bedsheets, but amongst the contents of the backpack Carl can see he’s also managed to acquire some actual plaster and crepe bandage to make a better job of it. Seeing him notice it, the dark-haired man gives him a questioning look,

     “You up for helping me with that too?”

And Carl grunts, because he doesn’t really see any reason why he wouldn’t.

A sudden soft and wholly unexpected sound at his elbow snaps his head round, and looking down in genuine surprise he sees that the eyelids of their patient have opened slightly. His lips part, forming a shape, and although the whisper that escapes them is hardly audible it’s so obviously Will’s name that Carl can’t help but let out a quick shocked laugh of relief.

At his side, Will has frozen in place, his eyes locked onto Hannibal’s face as if he can’t quite believe what he just heard. His hand on the other man’s forearm grips reflexively, fingers circling his wrist, and after a long moment he slowly lowers himself to sit on the bed.

His eyes open a fraction wider, and Carl marvels at the intense colour of them: a deep rich golden brown with hints of red in the irises, like a bright fall afternoon. The pupils move fractionally sideways, attempting to focus, and when they come to rest on his own face he feels an inexplicable stir of alarm when the dark pupils contract with a sharp movement, like a predator when it identifies prey.

     “Will?”

The voice is a little stronger now, the word a little more clearly formed, and the golden eyes track sideways away from Carl, seeking. And beside him Will lifts his hand and gently places it flat in the centre of his chest, leaning forward to deliberately meet the other man’s gaze.

     “I’m here Hannibal,” he says, and his voice is as calm and steady as the granite cliffs outside the window, “It’s ok. I’m right here.”


	6. Chapter 6

Carl stays out of the guest room for most of the rest of the day.It’s not that Will suggests it, but there’s something about the atmosphere in there now that Hannibal is awake that makes him uncomfortable. If he had to describe the exact nature of the feeling he’d find it difficult, but all he knows is that the way the other man looks at him, or rather _appears to look and choose not to see him_ , makes his stomach turn over. He’s heard shark’s eyes described as dead and flat, lacking in a soul, and has always found the idea somewhat fanciful. He’s seen a lot of sharks up close in his time, and has never felt anything like the level of unease he feels from being near Hannibal. What he finds even harder to understand though is how Will seems completely immune to it. 

After Hannibal’s initial words to him the silence between them had extended for several minutes, during which time Carl has watched with a growing sense of discomfort as the older man had run slow deliberate hands over the other one’s torso. Ostensibly, it seemed as if he was feeling for injuries, the concern in his expression evident, but the look on Will’s face as he’d sat there and let him had been anything but clinical, and after a while Carl had had to move away, the intimacy of it uncomfortable to witness. It was only then that Will had seemed to come back to himself, a hand coming up to still his movements.

     “I’m fine, Hannibal. I promise.”

The other man’s voice when he’d replied sounded like something that had been dragged over a mile of rough road.

     “You have at least two cracked ribs, maybe a third. Are you experiencing pain breathing?”

Will’s head had moved, a small shake, a small smile.

     “No. I told you, I’m fine.”

     “You didn’t wrap them?”

     “No.”

The older man’s eyes lingered on his face for a moment, searching, then a slight tilt of the head as he examined Will’s cheek.       
  
     “It seems as if The Dragon has left you with a lasting keepsake.”

     “You too.”

And it was Will’s soft-spoken answer, along with the slow deliberate press of his palm on the other man’s gunshot wound that had finally sent him scurrying from the room, muttering some excuse about making coffee. Whatever bond it was the two men shared, it was something he felt almost embarrassed to bear witness to. Standing between them as they looked at each other felt almost akin to staring through a keyhole, as if at any moment one of them might turn to him in surprise and demand to know what the hell he was just doing there.

Leaned against the counter in the kitchen now, Carl sips his coffee and pets Cassy distractedly while the radio drones softly away in the background. He thinks he should maybe consider making some dinner, maybe defrost some of the lake trout he has squirrelled away in the deep freeze, but before he can wander too far down that route Will appears silently in the doorway. His eyes when they meet Carl’s seem darker than they’d been previously, his expression slightly more wary.

     “He’s asleep again. I gave him a shot of morphine though the cannula. He told me how much.”

Carl nods, putting the rib examination and that information both together.

     “He’s a doctor?”

Will inclines his head and frowns, as if he’s not sure the question should be answered.

     “Sorry, ignore me. It’s none of my business…”

The younger man’s eyes move up to the ceiling, and it’s like he’s talking to Mike again. And maybe it’s the same for Will too, after all he’d called him ‘Dad’ before as if it wasn’t too great a leap for him.

     “He used to be. A medical doctor. He’s been…out of it for a while though.”

His careful wording and the look on his face - as if it’s not just Carl he’s protecting by keeping information to a minimum - is fascinating, and he finds curiosity bubbling up in him again. It’s hard not to wonder what’s gone on here, what the story of these two men is, especially now that it’s obvious that even attempted murder-suicide doesn’t seem to have been a deal breaker for them.

     “You must think a whole lot of each other,” he says, without considering how that might sound, and then immediately regrets it when he sees the deep colour that flushes Will’s face.

Shaking his head, the younger man’s fists clench at his sides reflexively.

     “He’s…” and he shakes his head, like he’s trying to free up something that’s caught in there, “I thought I could be without him, cut him out of me like…a tumour. Cauterise the wound. But I guess I was fooling myself. That I could ever have a normal life, that he was something that could just…be in my past.”

He’s trembling a little, not looking at Carl, which is probably just as well as he finds he has no idea how to respond to this confession. Weakly, Will leans his weight sideways against the doorframe and his arms come up to wrap across his torso, as if he’s trying to hold the pieces of himself together.

     “This. With him. It’s been…a lot. A lot to deal with. A lot to…understand.”

And this part at least Carl thinks he maybe gets.

     “Sounds like you’re feeling overwhelmed. Maybe you just need to give it some time. Give yourself a while to figure out your next move.”

Reaching out for the coffee pot, he takes a chance and pours Will some and then slides it over to him.

     “Know what helps me whenever I’m feeling that way?”

And Will’s head bobs in gratitude, as he takes the mug from him.

     “I don’t know Carl. What helps you when you’re feeling that way.”

     “A good old fashioned game of checkers, that’s what.”

The checkers set is one that belonged to his grandfather, and even though Carl would never consider selling it he knows it’s a thing of rare beauty. The white pieces are carved from whale bone, worked intricately with images of sea creatures around the circumference, while the dark ones - his grandpa always liked to tell him - were fashioned from the wood of a tree that grows far across the ocean, in a land filled with glowing jade snakes and tiny forest-dwelling elephants. 

Moving the pieces out across the board, Carl watches Will’s face as he takes them in, the small delighted smile as he picks up each of the pieces to examine them.

     “This scrimshaw?” 

And the careful way he replaces them on the squares when Carl nods,

     “It’s beautiful,” he says.

They play for most of the afternoon. After the fifth game he mentions the lake trout and Will offers to help him with dinner. It’s an oddly enjoyable experience peeling potatoes alongside him, while they exchange stories of their most memorable experiences behind the reel. Carl can’t remember the last time he told someone who hadn’t heard it before the tale of his fight with a 13’ Marlin in the 12’ dinghy, but it’s a wonderful feeling to watch Will’s eyes widen and listen to his barks of painful laughter at his description of his mother’s face as he pulled it through the door. 

He’s half bent over laughing himself watching him, when his attention is caught by a movement in the corner of the room, and he stills in an instant.

His gaze resting on them both like a heavy hand, Hannibal is supporting himself on a crutch made from an upturned broom, his broken leg held gingerly an inch or so above the floor. It’s a moment before Will sees him too, and then his easy smile turns immediately to an anxious frown.

     “I suppose it’s too much to expect you to obey your own goddamn orders. You said yourself, you need to keep that leg immobile until we put a proper cast on it.”

Hannibal’s eyes drift, moving to rest on Carl’s face for a moment before back to Will.

     “I needed the restroom. And it seemed as if I might be waiting for some time for assistance.”

Will’s brow creases more deeply,

     “You could have called out.”

     “Would you have heard me do you think? Above the laughter?” 

A smile touches his lips, but there is zero warmth behind it. Shifting awkwardly, Carl glances at Will’s face but seems to see nothing there but trace amusement and some mild frustration. It’s like looking at a man vaguely annoyed by the actions of a beloved man-eating tiger.

     “Do you think maybe you could you eat something?”

Will’s question is soft-spoken and instantly he see the other man respond to the softness, a fractional relaxing of the shoulders. An inward breath.

     “Medical propriety tells me no, but my stomach says otherwise.” 

His eyes move back to Carl and for the first time it seems as if he acknowledges his existence, 

     “Is that lake trout I smell?”

And Carl swallows drily,

     “Caught last weekend and fresh frozen.”

Hannibal head moves with a small nod,

     “Sounds perfect. I look forward to sampling the fruits of your labours, Mr…?”

Will clears his throat, and his expression is one of wry amusement.

     “His name is Carl. And I think the time for formal introductions has probably passed, don’t you?”

     “There’s no time limit on good manners, Will.”

And at that the younger man barks out a short laugh that is almost startling in its volume. Shooting an unreadable look at Carl, he shakes his head as he lays the two trout he’s been preparing carefully into the fish kettle and then steps over to the sink to wash his hands. 

     “Do I amuse you Will?”

Hannibal’s voice is cool, but his eyes glitter. Drying his hands off on the hand towel, Will’s answer is spoken evenly.

     “I’d just anticipated a slightly longer recovery period is all,” he gives him an arch look, “A few more days before we’d be expected to start polishing up the silverware.”

     “I take it that means you’re relieved you didn’t succeed in killing me.”

And it’s as if the temperature in the room instantly drops by ten degrees. 

Shivering involuntarily, Carl can’t help taking a step or two backwards so that he’s no longer stood directly between the two men who are now looking at each other with an almost palpable intensity.

     “ _Us,_ you mean. I didn’t succeed in killing _us._ ”

     “No,” Hannibal’s eyebrows lift fractionally, “And is that outcome one you find yourself at peace with? No lingering desire for a second attempt?”

Will’s jaw moves, and the sudden tension in him is evident. Reaching out a hand he grasps the handle of the steel boning knife on the counter beside him.

     “Not at present. How about you?” His own eyebrows flicker upwards, “Any lingering desire to separate the top of my skull from the rest of it again, or is that also off the table indefinitely?”

     “Will…”

And it seems absurd, but Hannibal looks almost reproachful at that. More than slightly incredulous now, Carl looks from one man to the other with a growing sense of disbelief.

     “So this isn’t even...the first time you’ve tried to kill each other?”

The words are out of his mouth before he’s even thought about the wisdom of saying them out loud, but to his surprise there’s little reaction from either man. Will’s eyes remain fixed on Hannibal’s face intensely for another long moment, before they finally drop. Setting the clean boning knife back in the block, he looks pointedly at the older man as he does so.

     “Strictly speaking, he started it,” he says.


	7. Chapter 7

They eat at the table. Carl can’t remember the last time he sat at it with anyone other than Cassy. Even when Mike comes they always eat at the counter. After Beth died it had seemed like a deliberate avoidance, her empty seat too hard for either of them to look at, but the last few years he supposes it’s just become habit. Sitting down to eat at the dinner table always feels kind of formal, like there’s some kind of occasion, and now looking down at his plate and silverware he supposes maybe there is. A really strange kind of occasion. He has visitors -  _houseguests -_  for the first time in almost a decade, and it seems that at least one of them has something to celebrate.

     “To our miraculous survival,” Hannibal says, and raises his glass in a toast.

Regarding him from under raised eyebrows, Will carefully spears a piece of the lake trout with his fork.

     “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to make a toast with water?”

The older man sets the glass back down on the tablecloth, and picks up his cutlery.

     “I’ve never considered you a superstitious man, Will.” 

     “I’m not. But I’m willing to bet our host here is.”

His eyes move to Carl’s face questioningly, and the old man gives him a wan smile.

     “It’s ok. Last time I took a foot off dry land was eight years ago. Don’t need to worry too much about drowning these days. Except maybe in my bathtub.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch at that and for a moment he almost looks human,

     “You were naval man Mr. Orr?”

Carl nods, chews carefully before he attempts a reply.

     “Warrant Officer First Class.”

     “Navigator?”

Will’s eyes on him are curious and warm and after a moment Carl hums a grudging acknowledgement, gives his head a little amused shake.     

     “Mind telling me how it is you manage to pick up on these things?” 

He taps the tines of his fork on his plate a little nervous now at asking, and watches as the younger man’s expression clouds with something like discomfort before looking away. Leaning forward in his seat, it’s Hannibal who meets his eye instead, as if he’s moved in to shield him.

     “Will has quite the gift for reading people. One of his many singular talents.”

His head bowed to his place, Will gives a dry laugh and delicately spears another piece of fish.

     “Sure. Many. I also make a mean catfish quesadilla.”

After dinner the other two men clear the dishes away, and after a few minutes Carl realises from the soft snatches of conversation and the sounds of crockery that they’re washing and drying them together in the kitchen. Looking down at Cassy he shakes his head again in bemusement. The novel he’s been reading for the last week or so lies open on the arm of his easy chair, and after a second to consider the continuing oddness of the situation he decides that there’s no reason not to follow his usual routine. 

Sinking down into the chair, he opens the book to the last place and attempts to concentrate on the story, but finds he can’t help craning his head to catch what’s being said next door. It’s deliberately soft he knows, but every now and then a discernible phrase manages to leak out. 

Will’s voice, firm and yet also deeply weary:

_“You know him Hannibal. He won’t stop. He’ll need to see bodies.”_

And then a lower murmur followed by a sharply terse reply from Hannibal:

_“You really think you have any right to ask me that?”_

For a while after that there’s silence, and unless he’s very much mistaken, a low-level tension that bleeds out of the room into the rest of the house. On the rug at his feet, Cassy’s ears are pressed flat to the side of her head, and her eyes look at at him beseechingly.

     “This dog needs walking,” Carl says loudly, and after a second or two Will appears at the doorway wiping his hands on a towel.

     “We could take her down to the beach?” 

He steps aside as Hannibal limps past him heading back towards the guest room. His movements are purposeful enough, but the lines of his face looks strained and tired. Watching him go, Will looks equally exhausted, but then as the other man closes the door behind him he seems to gather himself.

     “He should probably rest his leg for a while anyway. Maybe when we get back we can work on his cast.”

It’s just starting to get dark out, or ‘dimpsy’ as his Scottish mother used to say. Although the moon isn’t up yet a few stars are already out, and opening the gate to the cliff path Carl watches as Cassy scurries down it ahead of them, her sturdy black shape almost disappearing against the rockface. Closing it, Will steps after him, his shape squarer and sturdier in the padded jacket he’s borrowed. They walk down to the sand in silence, and Carl can’t help but remember the exact same journey just twenty-fours hours previously. It hardly seems possible that so little time has passed between now and then.

     “You lived here a long time?”

He can’t see Will’s face too clearly in the growing dark, but he nods in his general direction.

     “Moved here in ’91 just after the kids left home for good. Had some fool idea about the sea air being good for Beth’s lungs. Didn’t think too much about how it’d be for her, looking out at this all day every day for the rest of her life.”

Will makes a soft sound of understanding,

     “She got to hate the sea when you used to go away.”

And Carl sighs, because it seems so obvious now in retrospect.

     “Never said it outright, but yeah. Ate her up I think. Wondering when I’d give in to it again. Thinking it was just a matter of time.” 

In the dark he throws a piece of driftwood for Cassy and watches as she bounds away into the glowing breakers to find it.

     “You didn’t talk about it?”

     “Sure!” 

And Carl laughs softly, because the younger man makes it sounds so damned simple. 

     “We talked about it. Talked around it at least. Told her I was done, that I just wanted to stay home with her now, but I guess she was alone a long time. Alone with the kids when they were growing up, and then later alone in the house.” 

He runs a hand back through his thinning hair, 

     “Maybe it just didn’t feel safe for her to believe me.”

Ahead of them Cassy jumps in and out of the waves, her tongue lolling as she prepares to play ‘keep away’ with her stick.

     “After she got sicker it was worse. Like she didn’t dare believe I would always be there for her, like any minute she could turn her head and I’d be gone,” warm breath mists in front of him, “It’s an awful thing to love someone, know they love you, and still have them push you away like that. Like being without you is somehow less painful than waiting for you to go.”

He sees Will come to a stop beside him and turn to look towards the cliffs, up the coastline. He still can’t see him too clearly but he thinks he looks sad, wistful even.

     “What about you?” he asks him,“You married?”

     “Uh huh,” and his right hand comes up to twist unconsciously at the ring on his left, “It’s not like…that though. We hadn’t been together that long.”

The use of past tense in his reply doesn’t escape Carl’s notice, but he decides not to comment on it. Will’s expression is wide open again as he looks upwards, cranes his neck back to squint for the North Star.

     “I like to think I was honest with her, that I was my best self when we did it. And maybe I was. Maybe that was the one good thing I did. Marrying her. Trying to help her raise…” 

He stops and draws a quick breath, 

     “I think on some level I knew though. From the start. I always told myself that I was trying to keep us out of the shadows, but in the end it really took…so little. Maybe I was always just waiting for an excuse to drag them back over me again.” 

His eyes glitter in the darkness as he turns back to Carl,

     “Like a warm familiar blanket,” he says. 

They walk up along the sand for half a mile or so more before turning back, by which time the moon has come up in full to paint the sea with her milky light. They don’t talk again, just take it in turn to throw sticks for the excited lab and help her find new ones whenever they fall too far from shore for her to swim to. It’s a cool, perfectly still night and the beach is beautiful etched in silver, and Carl surprises himself by how comfortable he feels in the company of this quiet stranger, who even now carries his own loaded service pistol tucked into his waistband. 

Starting back up the path towards the house, he glances back at him as Will lags behind, appearing to search the surface of the water, before winding back his arm to throw something far out into the waves. Whatever it is Cassy can’t seem to find it, and after a moment of two of excited jumping she gives up on the task and trots quietly to Carl’s heels. 

     “You still ok to help me with this cast?”

Will’s request at his shoulder sounds genuine, like he actually has a choice in the matter, and Carl nods thoughtfully.

   “Only ever watched it done before, but sure. You?”

   “Put one on a half-feral Doberman once, years back,” teeth glint in the darkness, “Thinking that was easier than this will be.”

They reach the cottage gate and Will stretches past him to push it open, and the sight of his bare left hand in the moonlight stops Carl dead in his tracks for an instant. Seeing him looking, the younger man looks too, flexes his fingers before he stands aside to let him walk past.

   “Just didn’t feel right there any more,” he says.


	8. Chapter 8

Carl washes his hands, because it seems like the sort of thing you should do when you’re about to perform a semi-medical procedure. He doesn’t realise how long he’s taking until he hears Will’s quiet shuffle of feet outside the open bathroom door. After a moment or two, the younger man subtly clears his throat,

   “If you don’t feel comfortable doing this, I can manage fine on my own.”

Shutting off the water, the old man dries his hands and looks down at them. Although the slight shake is hardly discernible, he imagines that honesty is probably the best policy with a man who seems able to read him like a book.

   “He makes me kind of nervous.” 

The door cracks open a little more, and from outside Will regards him evenly. His expression is not entirely reassuring.

   “Believe me when I tell you that’s a perfectly reasonable response,” he pauses, studying him intently for a moment, “Something specific bothering you?”

Carl swallows drily, and suddenly wishes he’d kept his big mouth shut. He breathes out, and the air leaves his lungs a little more unsteadily than he’d like.

   “I don’t know exactly. Just the way he looks at me. Like I’m…” 

He struggles to find the right word, and after a moment Will arches an eyebrow,

   “Inconsequential?” he offers quietly.

Carl meets his eyes, uncertain what his response to that should be, but despite the slightly sardonic expression the other man is wearing he also sees understanding. Will’s hands hang loosely at his sides, and the fingertips twitch as if he’s fidgeting internally.

   “Would it scare you if I told you that that’s exactly what you are to him?” he inclines his head a little, seeming to be gauging Carl’s reaction to that, “What the vast majority of people are?”

Carl swallows again, 

   “I guess I wouldn’t be too surprised at that, no.”

Will lifts his chin, and the movement in his fingertips stills. The moment draws out, the tension in his posture obvious, as the younger man seems to consider his next words.

   “And...do you believe me when I tell you that you’re safe…as long as I’m here?” his voice softens, “That I wouldn’t let him harm you? Or Cassy. And that I promise you we’ll leave this place, the both of you, just as we found it?” 

Will’s gaze rests on him lightly, but the quiet confidence he emanates feels like something to latch onto. Breathing out again in a rush, Carl feels his heart give a painful jolt as if he hadn’t realised until that second exactly what it was he was afraid of.

   “I guess so,” he wipes his hands on his shirt front, “I mean…yes. If you say so.”

Will nods, a small tight weary nod.

   “Good,” he says quietly.

Carl doesn’t want to be the one to cut up the side of Hannibal’s dress pants. Although they’ve already been ruined by the seawater and even torn in a few places by the rocks, the idea of slicing into the obviously expensive fabric to expose the flesh underneath feels inexplicably…risky. Wryly bringing to mind the old fable about the injured lion and the mouse, he hands Will his wife’s dressmaking shears and then steps back a pace from both the bed and the stone-faced man in it.

Hissing softly through his teeth, Will shakes his head as he cuts and then peels back the parted material from the other man’s leg. Where the bone has been broken and re-set, the flesh has swollen into a large, hot-looking knot, a long wide bruise extending down Hannibal’s tibia and up over his knee in an impressive rainbow of purples and reds. Looking down at it implacably, the older man’s face assumes an expression of careful consideration.

   “It would be advisable to wait for the swelling to subside a little more before attempting to plaster.”

Will’s eyes move upwards to look at his face,

   “Advisable, but not practical Hannibal,” he says. 

Looking down again, he runs his fingertips lightly over the surface of the break, and Carl sees the other man’s barely controlled shiver of response. It could just be pain, but for some reason he doubts it. 

   “Perhaps not.”

Hannibal’s voice sounds calm and considered. Raising his eyes, he speaks directly to Carl for the first time since he’s entered the room,

   “You’ve shown yourself to be a most gracious host Mr. Orr, and it would be remiss of us to inconvenience you for a great deal longer. I would hate for us to outstay our welcome.”

Carl’s skin prickles with heat, and he finds himself unable to meet the other man’s eyes or give any response other than a quick dismissive shake of the head. He can feel Hannibal’s gaze laying heavy on him still, measuring, considering, and the feeling is like the span of a hand softly grasping his throat. 

In the end it’s Will that breaks the silence,

   “So how do we start this? I guess we need to clean the skin beforehand?”

   “That would be wise. And then a clean dry stocking pulled up the knee, before a grounding layer of dry crepe bandage.” 

Reaching to manually straighten the limb resting on the towel, Hannibal’s fingertips seem to hesitate for a moment before moving to brush the back of Will’s hand.

   “I can do this alone, Will. I am fully capable of treating my own injuries.”

And Carl watches as a frown darkens Will’s face, his hand stilling under the other man’s touch. His jaw clenches, and when the words come out it’s from between his teeth.

   “I _know_ that. But I want you to _let me_.”

Hannibal makes a soft noise, like a hum of wordless understanding and he sees Will’s eyes dart up to him. The intensity of the look that passes between them makes his cheeks heat a little, and gathering the gypsum bandages up, he clears his throat.

   “These gotta be soaked I guess? I’ll get a basin of warm water.”

As he steps away, he can’t help noticing that neither man seems willing to break away to acknowledge that he’s spoken.

Together they make a decent job of the plaster cast, which it seems even Hannibal is finally able to admit. Trimming the excess stocking from the top and then from around the other man’s foot, Will’s expression lies somewhere between mostly satisfied and slightly anxious as Hannibal dutifully wiggles his toes and expresses quiet approval.

   “How long usually before it’s dry?”

   “24 hours should suffice.” 

Raising his weight from the bed on his hands, Hannibal moves himself back a few inches on the mattress until he’s resting his lower back against the headboard.

   “It’s better if the leg stays completely stationary and horizontal until then. I’m afraid I shall have to be entirely reliant on you for my needs while it hardens,” his lips curve in a faint smile, “But perhaps you’ll enjoy that?”

Will’s eyes narrow, and Carl can’t help but notice the slight flush in his cheeks as he speaks. 

   “That would make sense to you, wouldn’t it? That I would enjoy watching you suffer? Having control over your every move?”

Gathering up the leftover medical supplies from the bed, he stuffs them back into the backpack with thinly disguised irritation before stalking over to the door. Turning, he looks back at the other man with an expression of exhausted exasperation.  

   “You’re not the only you who finds their compassion ' _inconvenient'_ ,” he says.

After he leaves, Carl stands for a moment or two unsure what he should do. The other man’s face is shuttered, his eyes still on the doorway through which Will has departed and he seems entirely oblivious of his presence. Even so, he feels as if he should speak.

   “I’ll make some tea, shall I?” he says, and then immediately feels foolish. Because it’s exactly what his mother used to say in similar situations; the standard Scots way to change the subject and break tension. To his surprise though, Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them again to look at him it’s with something that resembles gratitude.

   “You’re very kind, Mr. Orr. Thank you.”

He brings him his tea and then leaves him alone. Not because he feels afraid or uncomfortable so much, but because something tells him that other man would prefer it. 

Closing the door quietly behind him, Carl glances up at the wall clock and realises with a slight stir of surprise that it’s past ten already. Normally his days seemed to last forever, the fourteen hours or so between breakfast and bedtime feeling endless, but rather unsurprisingly the last twenty four hours has passed in somewhat of a blur. Standing at his feet, Cassy wags her tail hopefully and noses at his palm before trotting through to the kitchen and following her in, Carl finds Will sat at the breakfast bar. 

The glass in front of him appears to have been filled and emptied at least once already and eyeing it, Carl steps over the cupboard.

   “Got the decent stuff in here if you’re interested.”

He sets the unopened bottle of Dalmore on the counter beside him, and then bends down for Cassy’s bowl. Dancing in place, the lab’s tongue lols from her mouth as he pours in the kibble, and Will watches her - a slight smile on his face - before reaching over to crack the seal on the bottle. The soft gurgle as it pours into the glass is musical, and echoing his smile Carl draws a second tumbler from the cupboard and places it alongside.

   “Just one finger,” he warns as Will tips it up, and the other man nods. Sets the bottle back on the counter top with a soft, heavy sound.

They drink together in silence, listening to Cassy soft grunts of pleasure as she happily devours her food.

   “You two kinda like torturing each other it seems.”

Once again the words just fall out of his mouth before he has time to consider the other man’s reaction, and a little surprised at himself Carl stares into the bottom of his glass for a moment before looking up. Will’s expression as he looks back at him is startled, then after a second or two he licks his lips.

   “It’s not a question of liking it. It’s just the way we are,” there’s a small movement that could be a shrug, “If I’m honest, I’m not sure it’s even possible for us to be any other way.”

He raises his glass again with a sardonic twist of a smile.

   “Too much scar tissue. Full range of movement may never return.”

Carl snorts softly. The whiskey burns its way down his throat when he swallows and he finds that he loves the feeling, a sweet painful ache.

   “You can’t trust each other,” he says, and Will’s head jerks like he stifled a laugh.

   “That’s the understatement of all understatements,” he says lightly, but his voice is tight like he’s squeezing it shut on the words, “Trusting in Hannibal is a little like trusting your reflection in a funhouse mirror. You think you know what you’re seeing, but then when you move…it all changes, and you realise…you realise you can never be sure of anything. What hideous distortion you might see next.”

Carl hums to himself, takes another swallow. The heat is less now, but the burn is still there, like a little trail of fire making its way to his belly.

   “You said a mirror though. You see him in a mirror. So is it his ‘distortion’ you’re seeing, or yours?”

Will laughs and it’s a dark ugly sound. Raising his glass to his lips again, he nods his head slowly.

   “Now you’re starting to sound like him,” he says.


	9. Chapter 9

Will locks him in his room again. There’s less of an apologetic air to it this time, his face as he watches him enter is carefully blank, like he’s mentally placed himself somewhere else. Carl feels a little like a dog sent to his kennel, and the thought rankles slightly, a hot pressing tension in the centre of his chest. 

After the door has closed, he hears the sound of the key turning in the lock and then silence. Standing with his head near the door jamb, he can’t hear anything on the other side but senses Will still standing there, either lost in thought or perhaps listening himself. Then, after a few more long seconds have passed, his feet shift with a soft creak of boards and he slowly descends the stairs. 

Bending down, Carl peers through the keyhole and notices that he’s left the key in the lock. Years ago when the grandchildren still visited, Kara’s youngest had locked both he and Beth into the bedroom one afternoon, and he’d used the old ‘newspaper under the door’ trick to free them. The realisation that - should he want it - he has a way to escape during the night drops into him like a penny, and stepping back he takes a seat on side of the bed. Moving over from her basket to sit down on his feet, Cassy looks up at him with dark lucent eyes.

   “What d’you think girl?” he asks her, and the lab lolls her tongue in reply. 

   “Uh huh. That’s what I thought you’d say.”

He waits until 2.30am. The house is deadly silent now, just the low constant roll of the waves in the distance and the ticking of old mantle clock in his room. The last murmur of sound from downstairs ceased around midnight, and putting his eye to the keyhole again, he can see that all but one lamp has been extinguished downstairs. 

Beside him, Cassy whines softly and Carl shushes her with a deep frown. He’s already decided he can’t take her with him. The noise she will make on the stairs and then the floorboards downstairs with her claws is too much of a risk, besides which if there’s one thing he’s sure of with the man Will, it’s that he’s a genuine dog lover. He would never harm Cassy merely out of spite.

He doesn’t have a newspaper in his room, but he’s found something better. A sheet of bubble-wrapping that his last model had come wrapped in, and sliding it through the gap underneath the door he inserts a screwdriver carefully into the lock on his side and works it in against the back of the key. The old metal rattles softly as he presses against it, and he holds his breath as he feels it give minutely. One more hard little jab and then he hears the key drop out, falling neatly onto the sheet of packaging below. The sound is tiny, but still his whole body tenses at it, his heart beating painfully against his ribcage.

He sends Cassy to her bed with a stern order to stay, and then slowly eases open the door. The stairs are wooden and only carpeted in the middle, but luckily for him after almost 30 years in the house he knows every weakness in them, and makes it to the bottom with only the tiniest of creaks. The door to the guest room stands open, and Carl draws a deep breath and holds it as he moves past.

He can’t help himself looking to the side. Stretched out flat on his back on the bed, Hannibal’s face looks almost peaceful, his strong profile outlined in the faint pale light from the moon outside and both hands resting easily on his midriff. Laying opposite him, Will is on his side, the book he’d been reading splayed open on the coverlet. His expression in contrast looks anything but tranquil, his brow deeply furrowed in a frown and his lips parted. Stretched out from his side, the fingers of his left hand rests lightly against Hannibal thigh, and the sight of it is strangely affecting. Almost as if he’s reached out in his sleep for some reassurance that the other man is still there.

Stepping past, Carl reaches the front door and carefully lifts down his coat from the peg. The latch is old and stiff and grates slightly as he lifts it, and as he slips outside and closes it behind him his heart is his mouth. The track to the highway is a half mile long, but he knows that starting the truck’s engine up is just too much of a risk, so without waiting to consider it much longer he starts out along it at a slow steady jog.

The moon is just a little less than full as he reaches the end, and the smooth asphalt of the highway glows under it as it snakes out for miles on either side along the cliffs. Looking in first one direction then the next, Carl tries to decide which is his best bet. If he starts off in the direction of Busey, he could possibly make the outskirts by dawn, but if he walks south he might meet a truck coming down off the interstate and hitch a ride all the way to Rose Haven and the Chesapeake Beach PD.

Deciding the closer town is the smarter choice, he sets off north at a fast walk, his coat wrapped around his body and head down against the cold wind. The light from the moon seems to grow steadily as his eyes get accustomed to it, and he makes steady progress for almost an hour before he sees the glow of headlights reflecting off a highway marker ahead of him. Panting a little despite the cold, he turns and lifts a hand to hail the oncoming driver, only to realise at the last second that the truck slowing down as it approaches him is his. 

The old grey Subaru comes to a perfectly measured halt alongside him, and after a moment or two the passenger-side window rolls down. Looking straight ahead through the windshield at the highway, Will’s expression is one of bone-weary irritation.

   “Get in the damned truck Carl,” he says.

 

-o-

 

The voices behind the closed door are not so muffled he can’t hear most of the conversation, and even if he couldn’t Carl imagines he could pretty much guess how the first part is going. Hannibal sounds calm but also disturbingly angry.

   “If he’d met someone on the highway…”

   “I _know_. You’re saying this like I don’t know.”

   “All it would take is one call. All he’d need to do is mention my name…”

   “Well he didn’t. He didn’t meet anyone. I found him first.”

   “Fortunately for us.”

A small bitter laugh from Will,

   “Yeah, well. Fortune does seem to be favouring us, a little more than would seem entirely fair, don’t you think?”

   “Considering my crimes? Or considering yours?”

   “Considering either. I’m not sure _either_ of us deserves anything any more, Hannibal. Either survival, or… _this_.”

There’s a twisted kind of disgust to the words, as if he’s spat them out in a sudden burst of self-loathing, and a long tense silence follows.

   “By ‘this’, I assume you mean our being together?”

Hannibal voice is cold and clipped, and Carl can hear a strangely familiar emotion dripping from every syllable.

   “Believe me when I tell you Will, I had never entertained any expectation of enjoying your company beyond our planned engagement that night with Francis. Had we both survived, the most I had allowed myself to imagine was a relatively bloodless parting of the ways,” a short pause and then, “I had supposed that afterwards you would want return home to your wife, and I…”

   “Don’t you dare fucking _lie_ to me, Hannibal.”

Will voice is tense with fury, and in the gap between the door and the frame Carl can see him pace back and forth between the bed and the wall.

   “You know damned well that’s bullshit. You knew back in Baltimore there was no way I could ever go back. Jesus, you called it yourself, and we both knew it was true. Please just…will you at _least_ grant me the goddamned courtesy of not lying to me now?” 

He breathes out, half a gasp and half a groan, 

   “I thought that…after what I said to you…I thought that at least we were past that. I thought at least we could be fucking… _honest_ with each other now.”

Hannibal is silent. Craning his head, Carl tries to see the other man’s face, but the only part of him he can see is the stark white cast and his hands bunching the covers on either side of it.

   “What would you have me say, Will?”

The words are spoken so softly Carl can barely hear them, and yet the emotion in them is as clear as if he had shouted.

   “Would you have me beg you to stay with me? Declare how empty my life would be without your presence in it? How no food would ever again hold flavour? No music delight me?”

   “Goddamn it, Hannibal…”

   “I believe you _know_ how I feel. On some level I believe you’ve always known, it merely served your agenda to tell yourself it was something else. Just as it serves you now when you deny yourself the thing you truly desire.” 

Both men fall silent, and from what he can see though the gap, mostly still too. After a few minutes he sees Hannibal’s body relax a little, the hands gripping the bedsheets moving him back to rest against the headboard again with a sigh. Standing with his back to the door, Will’s head nods and then he sighs too. Shifts on his feet.

   “For what it’s worth. I’m glad we survived.” 

He hesitates before adding softly, 

   “I’m glad we _both_ survived. I’m not sure how I would have felt, if it’d just been me…out there. Crawling out of the water alone onto that beach.”

Hannibal’s voice is equally as soft, equally as careful,

   “That is not a scenario I would ever wish to imagine, Will. Not any more.”

   “My _death_ , you mean?”

Will’s voice has a touch of wryness to it, but Hannibal’s reply is utterly without humour. Utterly raw.

   “My life...after yours,” he says quietly.

 

-o-

 

When Carl wakes again the sun is high in the sky and his bedroom door stands open. Glancing over to Cassy’s bed, he sees it empty and for a moment a tight fist of fear closes around his heart. Will’s reaction to his attempted escape had been mostly calm, wearily amused even, but he couldn’t shake the absurd idea that he had somehow betrayed his trust and should expect some kind of punishment. 

Throwing back the covers he pushes his feet into his shoes, and makes his way quickly downstairs. The door to the guest room is closed, but from the kitchen comes the faint murmur of the radio and the unmistakable smell of frying steak. Confused and suddenly more than a little hungry, Carl nervously pokes his head around the door.

Stood at the cooker over a skillet, half-resting his weight on a bar stool, Hannibal is cutting a knob of butter from a stick and after a moment looks up with a smile.

   “Mr. Orr. Glad to see you awake at last. My plaster has dried sufficiently to allow me to stand for a while at least, and I felt the need to replenish our reserves with something a little more substantial in readiness for our departure. I trust you brought your appetite down with you?”

  Carl swallows nervously, and decides to just go with it.

   “Hard not to feel hungry with that smell drifting up the stairs,” he grins, “Didn’t even know I had any steak left in the freezer. Thought I’d had the last of it on Labour Day.”

Hannibal’s smile is small and lithe. Lifting the meat in the pan, he flips it over and the other side hits the butter with a satisfying crackle. Carl clears his throat,

   “Will not awake yet?”

   “Will is showering I believe, although I may be mistaken. Perhaps you could call him and let him know breakfast is almost ready?”

Carl nods, his head bobbing as he looks past Hannibal’s shoulder to the counter behind him. A small pool of blood is dripping from the chopping board to the surface, presumably where the steak has been tenderised. There is a pervasive smell of fresh meat in the air and turning his head in sudden confusion, he purses his lips and whistles.

   “Looking for Cassy? She came in looking for bacon an hour or so ago.”

Lifting three plates from the warming drawer, Hannibal reaches out to the rack for a slotted spoon while simultaneously moving a pan of eggs from the heat. 

   “Such an attractive animal, beautiful proportions. A purebred, I assumed?”

Something in Carl’s chest lurches, then a deep, dark clutching horror claws at the inside of his throat like some trapped animal.Staring wide-eyed at Hannibal he opens his mouth and closes it again, watching the dark centres of those amber-gold eyes narrow to pin points, in the exact same soulless way he’d seen that first evening.

   “No…you…please…you didn’t…” he starts to say, and then abruptly the words die away to nothing in his throat.

In the doorway at the back of the kitchen Will appears, hair tousled by the wind and cheeks flushed, and a moment later a large dark achingly familiar shape bumbles in at his heels. Seeing his dog, Carl feels the air leave his lungs in a painful rush, his heart fluttering as if it had been jumpstarted, and moving forward he leans heavily against the counter for support.

   “You ok Carl?” Will asks curiously, and after a moment or two he’s able to nod. 

   “She was getting under Hannibal’s feet in here, so I took her down to the beach for a run. Seemed like the safest option, considering.”

His eyes narrow and he regards the back of Hannibal’s head with suspicion. 

   “You probably wondered where she’d gotten to.”

The old man nods again, and as his breathing returns to normal his eyes crawl back up to Hannibal’s face again. The predatory blank stare is gone, and in its place the look the other man is wearing as he plates the food is nothing short of devilish.

   “I believe that Mr. Orr here may have briefly been under the impression that Cassy formed the central component of our Steak du Cheval, Will.”

Wiping the edge of the dish with a clean cloth, he sets it down in front of Carl with nothing short of a flourish.

   “Quite where he might have formed such a bizarre idea is beyond me,” he says as hands him a fork. “Bon appetit, _notre hôte_.”


	10. Chapter 10

The rest of the morning passes relatively uneventfully, although Carl can tell without asking that both men are tenser than usual and that their departure would now seem imminent. He wonders if it’s worth asking Will how he plans to make sure he doesn’t immediately report them as soon as they leave, maybe even suggest a way he could restrain him that would satisfy everyone, and then scolds himself internally. Best not to say anything that might be construed as suspicious or untrustworthy at this stage. He feels pretty secure in Will’s promise that they will leave both he and Cassy unharmed when they go, but he also suspects that the younger man has a darker side he’s been lucky to avoid so far, and he'd prefer not to risk bringing it out. 

Instead, after breakfast, he sits down at his model table again and continues to work on the bridge of the Indianapolis, making himself as small and unassuming as possible in his chair. Judging by the steaks, the change of clothes and the new cellphone he’s holding, Will has evidently driven into town that morning before he was awake, and the fact that Carl must have slept through the sound of his own truck starting up irks him a little. He considers the fact that they will more than likely take it with them when they leave, and that he’ll be left dealing with a veritable nightmare of an insurance claim, and the irritation sinks in a little deeper, a sharp barb that rankles in his breast all morning.

For this reason he can’t help noticing that, in direct contrast with his own mood, Hannibal looks positively ebullient. Dressed in a clean new pair of khakis and a plain cotton tee, he looks less like an escaped felon nursing a near-fatal gunshot wound and more like one of those lawyers that regularly come down from Washington to “recharge their batteries” on the coast. The cast even adds to the look, especially as the younger man has somehow procured a boot-cover for it and a steel crutch that gives him the look of an unfortunately skiing enthusiast.

Will has been outside on the cell for some time now, and through the window Carl watches him as he paces slowly back and forth between the truck and the house. His expression is weary still, but purposeful, as if he’s running a marathon he’s determined to get through, and as the conversation draws to a close he looks something close to satisfied. In the guest room, Hannibal is apparently packing the new clothes and toiletries Will has bought them into a holdall, and as he finishes the task he steps out into the living room and places the bag silently on the rug. Holding out Carl’s battered paperback copy of Moby Dick he inclines his head.

   “Might I hold onto this? I confess I’d quite forgotten what a wonderful story it is, and we’re only a third of the way through. Would you allow me to pay you something for it?”

Embarrassed and a little taken aback at his request, Carl can only shake his head. Fumbling the tiny tube of glue, he looks back down at his model and frowns.

   “No. No need. Keep it. Please,” he says, “Isn’t even mine. Was Kara’s I think.”

   “Your daughter? She lives nearby?”

   “Harrisburg…” 

Carl bites his lip as the name slips out, he’s not sure why he told him the truth. Pressing the front of the bridge down again to set the glue he glances at him sideways, but Hannibal’s expression is pleasant and guileless. Probably just being polite.

   “She doesn’t visit you?”

It’s not really a question, and he feels a prickle of irritation at the other man’s words. Not because he’s wrong, but because he so obviously knows he’s right.

   “She was real close to her mother. Both kids were. Kara’s husband too. Imagine they didn’t much like the way I treated her over the years.”

Hannibal’s chin comes up just a fraction at that. Curiosity perhaps, and yet he doesn’t ask him to say more and for that Carl is thankful. Setting the little ship back down on its stand, he sits back in his seat and regards it from every angle.

   “A fascinating story.”

   “Hmm?”

Hannibal’s eyes are fixed on the model, and after a moment or two he jerks his head in grim acknowledgement.

   “Oh you mean the whole shark thing? Not sure how much of it is true to be honest. Sailors are fond of tall stories, and the best ones are often spattered with extra gore for effect. Most of those men died of salt poisoning and exposure.”

The other man’s lips quirk,

   “That wasn’t the story I was referring to. I was thinking of the  suicide of Captain McVay, twenty-three years after the sinking. He was found dead in his garden in a deck chair, clutching the toy sailor he’d treasured since he was a small boy. He’d shot himself with his service pistol.”

Carl tries to swallow, but his mouth feels too dry.

   “Lot of people in that war couldn’t live with what they’d done. They brought it home, and it worked on them till they couldn’t stand it any more. Imagine he felt he was to blame, and so did a lot of those boys’ families.”

Hannibal gives a tiny nod of acknowledgement, and then bends down as if to examine the model more closely. Carl feels his breath stall in his lungs. With his face mere inches from his, the other man turns to look at him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

   “More than one way for a man to be eaten alive, wouldn’t you agree Mr. Orr?” he says.

   “ _Hannibal._ ”

Will’s voice from the doorway has a sharp note of warning in it, and looking up at him Carl sees him quickly scan his face, picking up on his burgeoning anxiety in an instant. Moving his eyes to Hannibal, his jaw clenches with suppressed annoyance. 

   “If you’re all done pecking holes in him, I could _really_ do with that number now?”

 

After that, Carl goes to make some tea. Not because he wants tea, but because it seems the most inconspicuous way for him to have a drink. He slaps a shot of the Dalmore in his mug and - after considering it for a moment longer - another two to bring it up to the brim. Watching him, Cassy whines softly in the back of her throat and he pushes her away with the side of one foot.

   “Don’t judge me,” he grunts.

He walks back into the living room, and stands at the front window looking out at the sea. Outside on the porch he can hear Will muttering something angrily -  _“What makes you think she’s even still in the country?”_ \- and then the rest is inaudible as they both move away to stand by the gate. 

Wrapping his hands around his mug and watching them as unobtrusively as possible, Carl sees Hannibal extend his hand a little - the palm open - and Will’s chin come up in resistance. The older man’s expression is almost amused at first, but then clouds as the other pushes his hands deeply into the pockets of his jacket and just stares silently back at him. It’s almost like watching a mental tug-o-war match. He sees Hannibal draw himself a little more upright - the look on his face reminding him of the cat Beth used to own - and then he says something with his eyes cast down. After a moment Will’s frown shifts and smooth out, and his shoulders drop in an unmistakable sigh. His hands come out of his pockets, the fingers twitching and he reaches out to touch the other man’s forearm. It’s barely a brush of fingertips, but even from thirty metres away it’s obvious that both men are affected by it. 

Handing Hannibal the cell, Will turns and walks back to the house, eyes on the ground. When he closes the front door behind him, his gaze rest on Carl for a second before he realises that he’s been watching them, and then a flush of colour stains his cheeks. 

   “We’ll have to take the truck, but I guess you knew that. We can either pay you for it, or you can say we stole it and claim back on the insurance.Either way, you’ll probably get it back from the FBI impound in three years or so. You’ll probably be able to sell it to some true-crime ghoul for a least a hundred grand or so…” 

He stops, realising what he’s just said, and closes his mouth with a snap. His eyes wide, Carl’s hand trembles on his mug and he takes another gulp of the tea to steady himself.

   “Probably easier if I just go with stolen. Might even get myself something a little newer. CD player maybe.”

Will grunts a half laugh and scuffs his toe on the floor.

   “You got someone we can call? To come for you once we’re far enough away?” He squints, “Your son-in-law?”

And Carl nods, grateful to hear that he at least has some kind of plan in mind.

   “He and my daughter live about two, two and half hours away by car. I can give you his cell. If you call him, he’ll come straight here…” 

He stops, his breath hitching, as he pictures it.

   “Would you though…tell him…I mean tell him not to say anything to Kara? I mean, not to worry her or nothing? Tell him to say it’s…tell her I busted my ankle up on the cliff path again or something? I mean, I know she’ll probably have to know after, but…” 

He stops again, not even sure what he’s doing asking this stranger to respect his wishes, to care what his daughter thinks, but feels reassured when he glances up and Will is looking at him with a softness in his eyes.

   “Sure. Whatever you want. Just write down the number, and I’ll take it with me when we go.”

Withdrawing his hand from his windbreaker pocket, Will takes out Carl’s own cell and lays it on the table by the model of the Indianapolis. 

   “I took out the SIM, but I thought you’d want the handset back. Pictures and stuff.”

   “Oh sure. Thanks.”

Reaching out a fingertip, he carefully traces along the line of the ship’s prow.

   “You think they’ll ever find her?”

Carl makes a noncommittal sound that could be taken either way, and Will glances at him with a sudden wry look of amusement.

   “You sound just like my…” he stops, autocorrecting himself, and then continues. “You don’t think she should be found? The families get to bury their dead?”

Carl grunts,

   “Seventy years on the sea floor? I say leave her be. Silt’s nice and thick, ocean’s nice and dark. The best kind of resting place for a sailor. The kind we all hope for.”

Will’s forehead creases in a slightly pained frown, and he turns back to look at the boat.

   “Yeah. I imagine that’s what I was thinking too,” he says.

 

It’s almost five before they’re ready to go, and the light outside is just starting to wane. Having made the choice of which chair he’d like to be left in, Carl sits patiently while Will carefully secures him in place, pushing two fingers under each set of cable ties to make sure the blood can circulate and that he can still move his right hand enough to reach the water and the energy bars he’s left on the side-table next to him. Unsure how to delicately bridge the subject, he’s relieved when the younger man sets a wide necked bottle on the seat at his side and indicates with his head that it’s there.

   “I can’t say for sure how long it’ll be, but I’m guessing till dawn at least. Chances are you’ll need it before then.”

Carl opens his mouth to say thank you and then realises how ludicrous it will sound, and just shuts it again. Will nods though, as if he’s heard him anyway.

   “I’ve fed Cassy and there’s water in her bowl. I’ll put her bed here shall I? I’m sure you’ll appreciate the company.”

He goes upstairs to fetch it, and slumping lower in his seat Carl stares out of the window at the dark gathering clouds over the sea.

   “A storm’s coming I believe.”

Hannibal’s voice behind him startles him a little. The man has an uncanny knack of entering a room from the side without making a sound.

   “Looks that way.” 

His reply is short and terse, because he’s damned if he’s going to bother with niceties now. The reality of his situation, tied to his own easy chair in his own damned home, forced to use a pee-bottle for the next twelve hours, is starting to weigh down on him and his cheeks burn with the sudden heat of humiliation.

   “I imagine you’ve weathered a lot of storms here though, in such an isolated spot.”

He doesn’t answer that one, and he can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him now, like a bird trying to pry the lid of something. Taking a half step closer, he tilts his head.

   “An unusual choice for a married couple. Tell me, did your wife enjoy living here, Mr. Orr?”

Anger flushes through him like a hot white bolt of lightning, and turning his head sharply Carl opens his mouth to bite out an answer, before both he and Hannibal are simultaneously frozen by the sudden low rumble of sound from outside. 

It takes him exactly two seconds to recognise it as the sound of a large vehicle pulling into the parking area outside the cottage, and maybe one more to spot the distinctive cherry red of Mike’s Navara as it glides into view through the window. Three whole seconds in total, certainly no more than that, but when he turns back to look at him Hannibal is already gone.


	11. Chapter 11

   “Pops?!”

Mike’s voice outside has the same slightly impatient, weary cheerfulness it always has after his two hour drive, and hearing it Carl feels his throat tighten in alarm. Normally he’d be outside to greet him, having heard the Navara approach, but then normally his son-in-law would have called before starting out, let him know to be prepared for a visit. Pulling at the restraints at his wrists, Carl opens his mouth to shout out a warning to him but then closes it again immediately. The front door is bolted from the inside, there’s no way for Mike to get into the house. Maybe if he stays quiet, and if the other two don’t do anything hasty, he’s just give up and go back home.

There’s a shuffle of footsteps outside on the porch, and then Mike’s sudden heavy-handed knock on the door sends his heart lurching in his chest with fear. There’s a long pause, and then another even louder knock and now Carl can feel beads of sweat breaking out along his hairline. Upstairs he hears Cassy let out several loud barks, before going abruptly silent as if she’s been muzzled.

   “Pops?! Carl?! Where you at old man?!”

Mike’s voice has a noticeably irritable tone now, there’s no anxiety yet, just the annoyance of a man whose most likely been guilted by his wife into making the trip and is now regretting giving into her. Carl hears his boots shuffle out and onto the dirt of the front yard, as if he’s looking up at the house’s windows, and then the sound of him walking around the house to the back. There’s a loud rattle at the kitchen door and the sound of knocking on the glass, and then Mike’s voice again, now clearly pissed, calling through the small open window there.

   “Pops, you in there??” A pause, then, “Cassy? Cassy girl?”

Carl holds his breath. The door handle rattles again and with an awful sinking feeling he realises that, with his truck in the driveway and no way to contact him by cell, Mike is unlikely to give up his efforts until he knows his father-in-law is ok. Cursing softly to himself, he considers yelling out some crazy excuse, some random reason why he just can’t come to door right now, but before he can decide on something that sounds even vaguely believable, there’s a loud smash of breaking glass and the decision is taken out of his hands.

   “Pops?!”

Glass tinkles and crunches behind the sounds of frustrated grunts, and then there’s the unmistakable sound of the backdoor lock being turned and the door being pushed inwards over broken shards of window. Huffing loudly, Mike stomps his way through the kitchen into the living room, and then comes abruptly to a stop in the doorway. His eyes widen in surprise, and his jaw drops open.

   “ _God’s sake old man_! Didn’t you hear me calling out to you? I’ve gone and broken your door now getting in! What were you doing, sleeping?!”

Carl’s lips press together in a mute expression of alarm, and he shakes his head. He’s not sure he trusts himself to say anything, and his son-in-law hasn’t even noticed the restraints at his wrists yet. Throwing his hands up, Mike rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

   “There’s Kara throwing a blue fit cos of all the FBI and cops on the news down here, worrying about you and some escaped goddamned cannibal, and you’re here fast asleep in your La-Z-Boy, not even answering your damned phone!”

He jerks his head towards the telephone, and then frowns in surprise.

   “Goddamn Carl, the damned thing’s not even plugged in here!”

He sees the movement to one side of the room in the same moment that Mike steps towards the disconnected phone. A neat slide of his body around the post at the bottom of the stairs, and then Will is standing calmly in the doorway, Carl’s pistol aimed levelly at the back of his son-in-law’s head. And what happens next happens so fast that later, when he’s trying to recall it, he finds it hard to clearly remember the exact sequence of events.

Mike turns, and in the same moment that he sees Will standing there, he snatches his hand back into his waistband of his jeans. Seeing the start of the movement, Will’s expression shifts minutely and then there’s a loud audible click, the unmistakable sound of a gun misfiring. And then, in seemingly the exact same moment, Mike lets out a strangled, cut-off cry as Hannibal reaches from the shadows of the kitchen behind him to slide one forearm across his throat, while with the other - he neatly pulls his gun arm back and breaks it. 

He sees Mike’s face twist in agony, feet bracing himself against the floor as he struggles for breath and - chin tucked in against his shoulder - Hannibal looks across the room back at him, his expression impassive. Then he slowly lets Mike’s body slip to the floor.

Horrified, Carl begins to choke. He realises there are tears in his eyes, and shaking his head from side to side he rocks the chair back and forth with the force of his momentum. The chair tips to the side, and with a painful slam he hits the floor, his skull bouncing with force off the floorboards. He’s crying as Will steps in towards him, pulling both he and the chair back upright with nothing short of brute force. His voice when he speaks to him is impossibly terse and cold.

   “Calm down. He’s not dead.”

Opening his eyes, Carl shakes his head back in disbelief until Hannibal obligingly reaches down to hold two fingers against his son-in-law’s throat and nods to confirm it. 

   “This does provide us with somewhat of a problem though, wouldn’t you agree?” 

He raises a quizzical eyebrow at Will as he straightens again, 

   “The man’s wife was concerned enough to send him all this way to check on her father. What happens when he doesn’t report back to her on time?” 

He looks over at Carl, 

   “Is your daughter prone to panic, Mr. Orr? How long might she wait before sending local law enforcement, do you think?”

Carl swallows. His heart rate still feels impossibly high and is making him feel light-headed, but the fact that Mike is still alive and that the two men are still discussing how to safely make their escape offers him a fragment of hope.

   “She’ll wait an hour or so before she calls him maybe. Then maybe another couple of times before she really starts worrying. She’ll call the cops not long after dark I reckon.”

Hannibal’s lips moves in a mild expression of irritation,  

   “That will means as little as five hours between leaving here, and the authorities being placed on high alert. Not quite the window of opportunity I’d hoped for.” 

He looks over at Will, seemingly to solicit his views on the subject, but the other man is looking down at the floor. Carl’s pistol is still clenched in his right hand, and the knuckles around it are white. The fact that, had his old gun not jammed, Mike would most likely be lying dead right now by Will’s hand is a fact he imagines they’re both fully aware of. 

The tension in the younger man’s shoulders is evident, but it's the look on his face that really sets Carl’s nerves on edge. Gone is the warm concerned man who went to fetch Cassy’s bed so he could have his dog near him, and in his place stands a cold-eyed stranger who it seems has finally run out of compassion.

   “We need ten hours minimum. Any less than that and we don’t stand a chance of making the rendezvous. There’ll be roadblocks on every major highway as it is. Even taking the route I’ve mapped out, we’re looking at maybe an hour, half an hour’s wriggle room. If we’re there any later that 5am, he’ll be gone…”

   “Do you have a solution in mind?”

Will’s posture shifts. He looks past him towards the window, and it suddenly seems as if he’s unwilling to meet Carl’s eyes.

   “We clean the place down and walk away. Leave them to find what looks like your basic home invasion,” he gives a small shrug, “Knowing your MO, if I walked in and found _this_ I know I’d never think to pin it on you.”

Hannibal’s eyes glitter darkly and if Will’s not willing to look at him, the older man certainly is, and his expression chills Carl to the marrow.

   “By ‘this’ I take it you mean…”

   “The broken back door, the cable ties. It’ll look like the son-in-law disturbed a break-in and the whole thing went south from there,” he looks up the stairs, and frowns, “We take a few things. Bust open the lock on the gun-box. Nothing that will look even remotely ‘Hannibal Lecterish’, even if Jack Crawford himself comes down here.”

Carl’s heart feels like it’s staggering to a stop. Looking back and forth between one man and the other, he opens his mouth to speak and finds that nothing will come out. Lying on the floor, Mike makes a low soft sound of pain and Hannibal looks down at him in surprise.

   “If you’re sure that’s what you want, Will.” 

And calmly he reaches down to wrap his fingers firmly around Mike’s jaw, the other hand cradling the back of his skull.

   “WAIT!!”

The sound bursts out of Carl’s throat before he’s even sure what he’s going to say, he only knows that he has to say something to stop this before it’s too late. Staring at Will’s back in disbelief for a moment, he turns back to Hannibal who is regarding him with a kind of feline curiosity.

   “There’s…a boat. Moored at Cape St. Claire. Belongs to a friend of mine Jack Taylor, but he told me anytime I like…I could take her out…any time…whenever. He leaves the keys in the office with the harbour master. One phone call, and they’d be mine. No questions asked.”

He takes a deep unsteady breath, and nervously wets his lips. Hannibal’s eyebrows lift a fraction, and slowly he turns his head to look at Will. There’s a long agonising silence in which the only noise they can hear is Mike’s heavy ragged breathing, and the loud tick of the mantle clock.

   “What is she?”

Air painfully enters Carl’s lungs and he tries not to gasp with relief,

   “A Morgan 41. A ’72. She’s a real beauty. Reconditioned last year. Got a new outboard too, 40HP upgrade. Take you anywhere you need to go.”

Will turns slightly. His face in profile looks perfectly calm, like he’s weighing his words and trying to decide whether he wants to believe him.

   “A 41? That’s a two-man craft. And you dry-docked for the last eight years? Your friend Jack must think a lot of your abilities.”

And Carl takes a chance, because either he sells this to the man or this is really it.

   “We served together. Fifteen years. So yeah, I guess he does.”

The silence spins out again, only this time it seems like it’s not just him waiting on tenterhooks, Hannibal too seems to be anticipating Will’s answer with some interest. Leaning back against the doorframe, he folds his arms across his chest before softly clearing his throat.

   “It would certainly mean we’d make better time.”

And after a long moment, Will nods, his fingers on the pistol finally flexing. Jerking his head to one side, he motions towards Mike’s form on the floor.

   “You’ll need to call your daughter. Let her know everything’s fine, and that Mike’ll be staying the night here. Make sure she’s happy.”

Carl’s head bobs stiffly, the muscles in his neck feeling like they’ve been stretched and wrung out like a dishcloth. Reaching down to retrieve Mike’s gun from the floor, Will checks the clip and then tucks it into his waistband to replace the pistol.

   “Before that though, you going to call your friend. Tell him you’re taking two buddies out night fishing up the coast, and for him not to worry too much if you’re not back before sunrise.”

A knife gleams silver suddenly in his hand, and Carl holds his breath for a second before - with a dull snick - Will cuts through the cable ties on his wrists. Giving him a long steady look, he quietly pockets the blade.

   “After that go pack a bag. Looks like you’re coming with us.”


	12. Chapter 12

When Mike’s eyes finally flicker open, slowly coming into focus on his face, Carl watches with a horrible sense of guilt as first realisation and then fear hits him like a wave. Instinctively he jerks his arms forward against the bonds at his wrists, before howling out an mangled expletive from the pain in his right shoulder. It’s an awful sound, and unable to stop himself Carl takes a half step forward towards his chair, before being frozen in place by the look of warning on Will’s face. Leaning his weight against the doorframe, Hannibal wears a faint smile as he watches them.

     “What the _fuck,_ Carl?? What’s the hell’s going here??”

Mike’s pupils are wide and dark with shock and pain, but he’s stopped struggling at least and instead is sitting rigid in the chair, eyes darting frenetically around the room. Finally settling on the lounging shape by the kitchen door, his mouth drops open in an expression of incredulous horror.

     “Jesus fucking Christ!! That’s Hannibal fucking L…” 

He stops, his whole frame now tense with fear. Pushing back with his shoulders against the seat, he looks wildly from Carl’s face to Hannibal’s and then - in a kind of confused disbelief - down at Cassy, who is sitting calmly on the rug between them. The lab thumps her tail loudly a couple of times on the floor, and staring down at her for a long moment Mike seems to slowly gather himself back together. When he looks up again his eyes are still fearful but now they’re harder, narrowed with anger. 

     “Police and feds are all over the coast road, helicopters, SWAT teams. You try to run, they’ll see you. Maybe you’ve ducked them holed up here for a couple of days, but as soon as you stick your neck out…they’ll be on you. There’s no way out.”

Behind him, Will straightens up with a wince of pain from shouldering the backpack, and fixes Carl with a look that plainly speaks of a need to stop Mike talking.

     “I’m going to drive them out. They’ll be in the back of the truck, under a tarp. You’re staying here. Once they’re away safe, I’ll call and let someone know where you are. Cops’ll come get you free, take you to hospital. OK?”

Mike’s eyes widen along with his mouth, twisting his neck he tries to see behind him, but Will has moved over to the front door, his hand now resting on the latch.

     “What the hell, Carl?? Why would you…” 

He starts to speak and then his eyes land back on Hannibal again who, realising the time has finally come to leave, has peeled himself gracefully away from the wall. Even moving with a crutch and a broken leg, his progress across the room is filled with a kind of balanced, powerful intent and clearly horrified by the sight, his son-in-law crowds himself backwards in his seat. Looking down at him, Hannibal gives him the ghost of a smile.

     “I should be most grateful to your father-in-law, if I were you Michael. If it weren’t for his remarkable acuity your three lovely children would be minus one parent right now, and your wife your grieving widow.”

His eye drift from Mike’s face to the collection of photographs on the wall above the fireplace, and linger on the family portrait there, just long enough so it’s obvious where it is he’s looking.

     “Perhaps when this ordeal is over, you might consider all visiting a little more frequently from Harrisburg? I imagine Carl would enjoying seeing Scott and Jennifer and little Bethany a few more times a year, don’t you? While they’re still technically his grand- _children._ ”

There’s a long intense silence and then, swallowing audibly, Mike gives a tiny nod of acknowledgement. His eyes dart back to fix on Carl’s face, and the obvious fear in them for his father-in-law almost irritates the old man. Straightening his posture, he leans in towards him and lays a firm hand on his shoulder.

     “You don’t need to worry Mike. I’ve got this. Everything’s going to be OK.”

From his place by the open front door, Will makes a sound in his throat - a little cough of impatience - and glancing at him, Hannibal smile warms. Leaning his weight on his crutch, he inclines his head politely at Carl.

     “I believe that’s our cue for departure. Do you have everything you need Mr. Orr?”

Carl looks at Mike’s shape slumped low now in the chair, and draws in a deep shaky breath. Reaching down to pet Cassy’s head, he opens his mouth to tell his son-in-law to take good care of her, when Will makes another sound. Only the time it’s a sharp _chirp_ , a noise that the dog immediately responds to, trotting over to the doorway to join him. Staring at him in alarm, Carl tries to read the look on the other man’s face, but finds himself unable to. Will’s eyes are dark and expressionless as he looks first down at the dog now sitting patiently at his feet, and then steadily back across the room at him.

     “She’s coming too,” he says quietly.

 

Carl knows that the drive to the marina at Cape St.Claire is only around forty-five minutes, but even so the thirty miles feel like they take hours. Sat beside him on the passenger seat, Cassy’s pink tongue flaps happily as she sticks her nose out of the open window into the slipstream, tasting the sea air. It’s been a while since he took her out in the truck, and her excitement at being taken for a drive seems to have overridden any sense of anxiety she might otherwise have picked up from her master. 

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Carl stares at the tarp in the flatbed behind him and swallows nervously. So far he’s seen no law enforcement on the roads, but there’s no getting away now from the fact that he’s knowingly helping two wanted criminals escape from federal custody here, and even as he thinks that, Mike’s words as he’d entered the house come drifting back into his awareness. 

And in a sudden terrible rush of realisation, he almost drives the damned truck right off the road.

He hardly ever pays attention the news, hardly ever has, but he remembers clearly now all the stories that were everywhere at the time. It was probably only been a year or so after Beth had gone and he’d only been visiting town sporadically, but the headlines on local papers as well as the bigger nationals had been unavoidable. _Hannibal The Cannibal_. It wasn’t the sort of name or story you’d forget easily once you’d heard it, and shaking his head back and forth in shock, he tries to keep his eyes on the road ahead instead of glued to the rear mirror. 

And how the hell did Will fit in in all of this? It was obvious from everything he’d seen and heard that he a complex relationship to the other man - to say the least - but if they’d been enemies once, did that mean he was ex-law enforcement? Carl frowns as he realises that would explain a lot; Will’s stance with a gun, the ease with which he’d handled himself at the clinic, the familiar way he’d talked about the FBI. And if Will was ‘a good cop going bad’ it would go a long towards making sense of the strange contradictory way he’d been around him: one moment warm and friendly, the next downright chilling.

The lights of the marina come into view along the coast road, and slowing down a little, Carl rolls over the speed bumps as he makes his way down towards the big parking lot near the harbour master’s office. The light is on inside, although it’s gone seven o’clock now, and he breathes a nervous sigh of relief when he sees a figure at the window. Jack Taylor had been bemused but more than happy to make good on his offer when he’d called him, and had even suggested driving up himself from Rose Haven to meet them at the boat and give them a tour. It had taken some quick thinking on his part to dissuade him, and it was only when he’d assured him that one of his company was an experienced sailor that Jack relented, offering to call ahead to the harbourmaster and let him know they were on their way.

_“You know Nathan Byers right? Good guy. Ex-SEAL. Taken her out a few times himself, so he can show you over her if you need it. He’s usually gone by six, but he’ll stay on to meet you if I ask him.”_

Parking the truck a ways from the wooden building, Carl locks up and walks round to the tailgate. Unlatching it, he steps back as Will slides feet first from under the tarp, giving him a sharp assessing look before reaching to offer Hannibal a hand down. To Carl’s surprise, the other man takes it, standing poised on one foot while Will pulls out the crutch from the bed of the truck and gives it to him along with his bag.

     “Wait down there. Under the broken light.”

The soft instruction brings another strange slight smile to Hannibal’s lips, and giving him a nod he starts to make his way across the parking lot to the dockside where there’s a gap in the row of floodlights. Turning to look at Carl, Will reaches to take Cassy’s leash.

     “OK. Let’s do this.”

 

Nathan Byers is a huge, dark-browed bear of a man, his thick imposing arms covered with tattoos, but when he sees Carl coming towards him he breaks into a wide angelic smile.

     “Hey Carl!! Long time no see!”

And, even as jumpy as he is, Carl can’t help but return it.

     “Hey Nathan. How’s life treating you? How’s that little wife of yours doing?”

The big man laughs and shakes his head, 

     “Still putting the pounds on me with all her cooking as you can see. And how’s Cassy here? Looking fit as a flea!”

He bends to pet the lab, and as he does so gives Will a quick friendly smile.

     “Going out for a spot of night fishing huh? Bit late in the season, but someone came back in with a whole mess of croakers last Saturday, so you might be in luck!” 

Glancing at Will sideways, Carl sees him give Nathan a warm grin in return, ducking his head under his cap in a pantomime of shyness.

     “That’s good to hear. Thought sure it’d be hardheads and not much else out there this time of year.”

     “Ah now come on, hardhead’s a real underrated fish!”

     “Well, maybe if you boil ‘em for a couple for weeks, and add a pint or two of hot sauce.”

Will’s accent is a slow soft New Orleans drawl as Nathan chuckles in agreement, and Carl can’t help but marvel at how natural he seems, as if he genuinely is looking forward to catfish stew. Clearing his throat, he looks back towards the dock, where in the dim light he can see Hannibal’s figure clearly silhouetted by the working floods. Even from a distance, the mere sight of him waiting there for them makes his stomach turn over uneasily.

     “We ok to get the Morgan’s keys now?”

The words come out just a touch sharper than he’d meant them to, and Nathan’s smile immediately cools a little, a flush of colour coming to his cheeks.

     “Sorry. Wasn’t meaning to keep you boys.” 

He draws the bunch of keys out of his vest pocket with a slight frown.

     “Jack said to be sure to tell you to check the timing belt before you try and start her up. He thinks it’s got a little too much slack in it, maybe needs looking at.”

     “I can…uh…check that out for him while we’re out. Be no bother.”

Will’s voice has a touch of an apology for him in it, which Carl feels like a barb under his skin. Looking down at the ground, he flushes deeply as the younger man reaches forward in his stead and opens his palm for the keys which, with a nod, Nathan drops them into.

     “Sounds like you’d be a useful man to know. Maybe put your head in next time you come back round, I could put some work your way if you’re interested?’

     “Appreciate it!”

 

They’ve walked fifty meters or so away towards the dock with Cassy, before Will turns his head sideways to look at him. His expression is more curious than angry, but Carl can sense the question he wants to ask him without him saying a word.

     “Just jumpy is all. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Will presses his lips together, and turns to look in front of them. Leaning back against the railings in his windbreaker and khakis, Hannibal appears every bit the relaxed holidaymaker looking forward to some sport fishing, and Carl sucks in a deep breath in preparation for what’s about to come.

     “What you said back at the house, about making it look like a home invasion…”

He starts to speak and then stops thinking better of it, leaving the question hanging, unsure if he even wants to know. Twisting Cassy’s leash tightly around his hand, the younger man looks down at it for a moment before replying. His voice, although calm, has a slight tremor in it and when he breathes out, the air from his lungs mists in front of both their noses.

     “You want to know if I’d have really stood by and let him kill you both?”

Ahead of them in the half-darkness, Hannibal pushes himself away from the rail smiling and - seeing him - Will’s lips curve upwards in what seems like an almost unconscious mirror of the other man’s expression. 

In the end, he doesn’t bother to answer his own question.


	13. Chapter 13

The Morgan isn’t a huge boat he knows, but Carl can’t help thinking it feels a whole lot smaller that forty-one feet once they’ve cast off and he’s alone on it with two intense, inherently dangerous men. 

With his shoulder still immobile Will needs his help of course, and so their interactions for the first hour or so take most of the edge off the tension. It’s incredibly satisfying to be coiling damp rope and working with sailcloth, while wreathed in moist sea air, and for a while Carl actually forgets what he’s doing there, even grins a few times to himself as he makes his way across slippery decking. Once all the stowing away and prep for their journey has been done though, he finds himself standing in the short corridor between the galley and the sleeping quarters quietly refilling with a familiar anxiety.

Behind him in the double berth at the rear, he can hear the soft sound of classical music spilling from a radio and knows without even without looking that Hannibal is back there. As soon as they’d got on board he’d disappeared down below, seeming perfectly content to leave everything regarding the running of the boat to them without any interference from himself. Admittedly his cast would have made him somewhat of a liability on the wet deck, but Carl imagines that wasn’t the only reason he taken himself away so swiftly. Despite his seemingly superhuman tolerance for pain, he’d noticed a subtly increased heaviness to the man’s movements in the last few hours that betrayed exhaustion, and from what he’s been able to glean so far about Hannibal he imagines the idea of showing physical weakness is something he finds almost intolerable. Particularly, it would seem, in front of Will.

Feeling suddenly bone-weary himself, Carl makes his way to the sitting room and sinks down onto one of the berths there. Will, he knows, is up at the small bridge now, carefully charting their course to who-knows-where, and from what he can figure from the few vague clues he’s given him, he won’t be needed again now until some time near dawn. Heavily, he leans back against the cushioned seat and after a minute Cassy joins him, nosing his palm until he gives in and pets her. In the end, the familiar feeling of her fur and the motion of the boat are all that it takes to send him drifting off to sleep.

 

He dreams that he’s floating. 

Stretched out on a piece of wreckage, he’s cast adrift in the centre of an ocean of blackness, while all around him bob dark horrifying shapes: distended bodies, chunks of ruined hull, and then - moving amongst them - the slow ominous swirl of fins and tails. Rigid, he holds his breath, his heart hammering, and flattens himself to the surface of the wood, trying to remain invisible. 

The feeling of inevitable impending horror stays draped over him like a thick cloying blanket, even as the low steady murmur of voices in the galley next door drags him out of the nightmare and slowly back into consciousness.

_“She has papers for me too? Do I even want to know how long you’ve been working on all this?”_

Will’s question doesn’t sound like one that needs an answer, and one doesn’t come. There’s the quiet sound of a kettle being filled with water from the tap, and then a gas burner being lit.

     “What if Dolarhyde had never turned up? Were you just going to drug me and transport me there as cargo, or did you plan on giving me any say in the matter?”

     “Not on our initial destination, no. My choices were somewhat limited given the timeframe. I had to make sure that there was no danger of any bilateral extradition treaty being honoured in my case, which - without the time for careful investigation - necessitated a considerable outlay of funds.”

     “I’m surprised that was even a concern for you. It wasn’t in Italy.” 

     “Perhaps, in this one respect at least, I have learned from my previous mistakes.”

Will gives a dry laugh,

     “Just in the one?”

Carl hears cupboards open and close, and then the sound of the icebox opening. China cups being set down on the counter, then Hannibal’s voice again.

     “Perhaps not just one.” A pause, and then, “I knew I could not make the mistake of leaving you behind a second time.” 

     “Leaving me behind alive, you mean?”

Will’s voice has the same hard, knife-bright edge to it as it had back at the cottage, and Carl can clearly picture the expression that goes with it, as well as the other man’s reaction. When Hannibal replies though, his tone is less affronted than it is deeply weary.

     “Will. Is this really how we are to continue?” 

There’s a sound like a long sigh, then a slow, soft shuffle of feet.

     “When you pulled me with you over the cliff’s edge, I had believed you were doing so because you had finally accepted what we are to each other. What I am to you…as well as you to me. Has the accident of our survival somehow erased that knowledge? Or is it your belief that we should only be permitted to remain together in death?”

There’s a long moment of charged silence, and then Will replies, his voice impossibly tense as if he’s pushing the words out from between his teeth.

     “You… _love me_.”

     “Yes, I do. Very much.” 

It’s a careful soft reply, that sounds both fond and a little surprised at itself. There’s a pause and then,

     “Do you imagine what you feel is…something else?”

     “I just…” 

Will makes a low sound like he’s in pain. It’s almost hard to listen to.

     “I don’t know what it is. I just know I’ve never felt more truly _whole_ than I was in that moment. With you. And that’s not something I can forget about, or walk away from. I don’t want to." 

He voice steadies into something more sure of itself,

     “It feels more like _need_ than anything else _. Like I need you now_. The same way I need sleep, or food or water. Like I need air.”

And Hannibal hums softly in the back of his throat, a deep almost soothing sound. He can’t see them, but Carl imagines they’re leaning in against each other.

     “That will do. At least for now,” he says quietly.

 

The high pitched whistle of the kettle coming to a boil drowns out any more sound from the galley, and rolling onto his back, Carl stares at the planked ceiling and listens to the low steady hum of the engine as it moves them through the water towards their destination. 

He knows they’re heading south west, so most likely aiming for somewhere on the eastern side of the Delmarva Peninsula, a destination which would have taken them maybe only 4 hours or so by car but would have meant risking any number of roadblocks. Whoever Will is taking them to meet is obviously working to a tight schedule, and the time they’ve saved in making the crossing by sea has probably proved invaluable. Reaching down to Cassy’s head, Carl lays his hand on top of her skull and lets it rest there, the dog’s warmth comforting him. He’s still dozing in the same position when, an hour or so later, he hears the engine go silent.

     “Carl.”

Looking up, he sees Will standing in the doorway of the sitting room. Dressed in a thick wool sweater and padded windbreaker, he has the old Orioles cap from the truck on again, the peak pulled down. His face is serious, but there’s a kind of brightness to his eyes that has the look of excitement about it, rather than nervousness.

     “Need some help reefing the mainsail.”

He waits as Carl swings his legs off the berth and stretches, and then extends a hand holding another windbreaker.

     “You’ll need this. Raining pretty hard out there now.”

Out on deck, the wind is blowing the rain in a slow drenching sheet from the north, and bowing his head into it Carl steps carefully across the desk towards the mast and waits for Will to release the mainsheet. They’re cutting along through the water at a fair pace, and in the distance he can faintly see lights along the edge of a bay rather than a marina. It’s not one he’s familiar with, but judging by their course he’d make a guess at either Long Point or Jones Creek. 

The mainsail starts to flap, and stepping in close he yanks the slack out of the reef line to flatten it out. The sail snaps tight and fills and he feels a sudden curious sense of pride at the sight, his eyes locking with Will’s for a moment before the other man looks away.

     “You tying the clew up?”

     “Probably not worth it, we’ll be docking in less than thirty minutes.”

Carl nods, massaging his hands as he steps back to the hatch. Down below he can hear the faint strains of classical music again, and the sound makes him inexplicably nervous.

     “And then what?”

Will glances up at him, coiling rope around his fist, and then down at the hatch.

     “Then just a short drive to our final destination. There should be a car waiting when we dock. I’d say you could stay behind on the boat, but I think it’s probably safer if you stick with us through the final act.”

     “Safer for me, or for you?”

The younger man gives him a wry look,

     “At this stage, I’m not sure there’s even a difference any more, are you?”

 

The boat’s prow cuts through the last half mile of water at a perfectly controlled speed, dark surf softly foaming in her wake as Will expertly guides her towards the small jetty at the very end of the bay. Pressed against the mast, Carl stares at the distant lights as they approach the mostly deserted wharf, eventually making out a single lone figure there stood alongside a dark vehicle. As the boat’s engine cuts back in and they chug to a slow sliding stop, he feels the hairs on the back of neck prickle as Hannibal steps up onto the deck alongside him and slowly raises a hand. 

On the dock, the slight figure, who he now recognises as female, raises hers in return.

Taking his lead from Will, Carl busies himself with tying the Morgan in tight to the pontoon, making sure his knots are good, while at the same time watching curiously as the straight-backed young woman extends a hand to assist Hannibal in stepping from the boat. They stand regarding each other in silence for a moment, before the woman speaks.

     “I received your message,” she frowns slightly, “I had assumed you were both dead.”

     “Assumed, Chiyoh?” A birdlike tilt of the head, “Or hoped?”

The woman gives a small delicate shrug.  

   “I could imagine a more ignominious end.”

Her bright, dark gaze drifts to rest on Carl’s face for a moment, but barely pauses there before moving on to Will, where it rests with some weight.

   “You’ve added more scars to your collection I see." 

Straightening, the younger man gives her a sharp-toothed grin, dropping the fat coil of rope he’s finished making down onto the desk.

   “Good to see you too, Chiyoh.”

He looks sideways at Carl, and for a moment there’s almost a sense of camaraderie between them.

   “Think you can flake the mainsail by yourself? I’m going to go below and get the rest of the stuff.”

He climbs down through the hatch, and leaves Carl to work. Folding the sail sheet isn’t the easiest job in the world, but he’s finds he’s grateful to have something to do rather than just stand and stare at the strangeness of the relationships on display here. The young woman and Hannibal are conversing quickly in what sounds like Japanese, looking for all the world like siblings on the verge of a bickering match, and when Will returns to join them, the tension between all three is almost palpable.

Lifting her chin, the woman reaches into the pocket of her greatcoat and withdraws a tight bundle of documents which she holds out to Hannibal.

   “The contents of the safety deposit box,” and then at his questioning look, “The money is in a bag in the trunk.”

   “You have removed your own expenses, I hope?”

Chiyoh’s eyes glitter brightly in the shadows of her face, and even from a distance Carl can see there’s intense emotion there being held at bay.

   “I require nothing from you…” 

She stops speaking, her jaw clenched tight with a look of conflict on her face, and it doesn’t surprise him when Will finishes her sentence for her.

   “But you’d rather you never heard from us again. Right?”

Hannibal’s expression is unreadable, but after a moment or two he gives a small nod. His reply when it comes is a little stiff, and if Carl didn’t know better he might even fancy there are tears in his eyes.

   “As you wish, Chiyoh. If you remember, it was my aunt who charged you with my care, not I. But, if it means anything to you, I absolve you of the burden now in her stead. You need no longer watch over me.”

The woman bows her head a little, although when she raises it to look at Will her posture is as defiant as her eyes. 

   “Now he will,” she says.


	14. Chapter 14

There’s a brief moment as they approach the car, when Carl begins to feel nauseous. It seems very much now as if their journey is finally drawing to close, and despite all the assurances he’s received he can’t help but feel a slow-growing sense of anxiety about how it’s all going to end. Will seems calm and relaxed now as he carries their luggage up from the Morgan and sets it into the trunk of the car, only bothering to cast him one quick look of assessment before indicating that he and Cassy should get in. The woman - Chiyoh - remains on the wharf, hands pushed deep into her pockets as Hannibal talks quietly to her in Japanese, giving only the most minimal of head movements to show she has heard him. Looking at her in profile, Carl can’t help but admire her beauty whilst also acknowledging that he is more than slightly intimidated by her.

   “She family?”

Leant against the car door waiting on them, Will gives a tight nod.

   “Something like that.”

   “You trust her?”

   “Not entirely. But in this?” He rubs a hand back through his damp hair, “I imagine she wants Hannibal gone from here every bit as much as he wants to be gone.”

   “Doesn’t seem that keen on you either.”

Will’s gives a soft snort of laughter,

   “I’m not going to argue with that.”

His face returns to its previous calm passivity, and after another moment or two Carl chances another question, even though he’s not even sure why he feels the need to ask. To poke at his decisions the way he’s been doing.

   “You said as much as _he wants_ to be gone. That mean you don’t want the same?”

Turning sideways, Will gives him a sharp look and its obvious he realises that Carl was listening in on the conversation in the galley. His eyes darken as they fix on his, and at first his expression seems angry, defensive even, then slowly it softens to something else. Something more like the one he’d seen glimpses of as he’d thrown sticks for Cassy, played checkers. The man he’d warmed to before the facets had shifted and revealed someone else.

   “You don’t need to worry about me Carl.”

Breathing mist into the cold night air, Will gives his head a small shake.

   “I don’t need saving. Not from Hannibal. Or from myself. Not any more.”

   “You sure about that?”

The younger man turns his head away, back towards the figures of Chiyoh and Hannibal, still deep in their conversation.

   “I’ve spent most of my life unsure about what I wanted, or needed. Who I was. I figured out a while back now that I don’t feel that way around him. I realised that - when I finally saw him - I could also see myself,” he sighs, “That I didn’t like what I saw, that I thought it should be cut out of me, buried somehow, that kept me unclear for a while longer. Uncertain. I’m not uncertain any more.”

 Carl grunts,

   “You said something like that before. That he’s like a mirror. You also said you couldn’t trust what you see in it.”

   “No. I can’t,” and Will frowns, “Maybe I can only trust what I feel.” 

   “Thought you didn’t know how you felt.”

Will mouth twists in the ghost of a tired smile, 

   “No, I said I didn’t know what to call it. That’s not the same thing.”

   “Isn’t it?”

Carl doesn’t mean to sound so challenging, but something in what Will is saying to him pushes his buttons and he’s not even sure why. Shifting his body slightly, the younger man turns to look at him again, only this time there’s a sharp curiosity in his face that wasn’t there before.

   “Are you asking me? Or telling me?” 

His eyebrows lift a fraction, and his voice drops to a low murmur.

   “Tell me Carl, when your wife…when Beth was laid out in that bed dying in front of your eyes, can you honestly say what you felt for her in those moments could reliably have been termed ‘ _love_ ’? A simple, pure feeling that filled you with gratitude, with sadness? Or was it something else?” 

His lips draw back over his teeth, 

   “Was it something blackened and clawed and terrible, that felt like it was being dragged up out of the depths of you. Something you couldn’t have put a name to even if you’d tried.”

His softly spoken words send a deep shudder through Carl’s body and moving further back into the car against the seat, the old man instinctively reaches a hand out to Cassy. The lab’s wet nose presses up into his palm, and he swallows over a shaking breath.

   “You don’t know anything about that.”

Will drops his eyes, looking down at the ground, and after a moment or two he gives a nod. Not agreement with him, but some kind of acquiescence.

   “You’re right. I wasn’t there.” 

He straightens up, moving back against the car again, 

   “And I know that what we feel can’t just be labelled or defined cleanly as right or wrong, good or bad, as love or…” his lips thin into a firm line, “Anymore than people can.” 

Stepping away from the edge of the pontoon, Chiyoh and Hannibal turn back towards thm, the latter making his way steadily round to the passenger seat before handing his steel crutch to Will to stow in the back. Carl can’t help but feel a sense of relief that he won’t be sharing the backseat with him, and as Will slides in next to him on the other side of Cassy he turns away to stare out the window.

Chiyoh’s voice is cool and clipped as she starts the engine,

   “I assume you have directions for me?”

Looking out on his own side, Will doesn’t bother to turn his head.

   “Just get on the highway and head south. It’s not that far.”

From the seat in front, the woman makes a tiny movement of irritation with her head, her brows drawing together, and responding to it Hannibal sighs.

   “Now might be a good time to reveal a little of your plan, Will.” 

Turning slightly his seat, the older man eyes him with a look of what looks to be mostly amusement, 

   “I must admit to a little curiosity myself. And perhaps, understandably, some trepidation.”

   “Well I’m not sure why _that_ would be.”  
  
Will’s tone is loaded with sarcasm, and he and Hannibal eye each other for a long moment, the air between seeming to crackle. Shifting in his seat uncomfortably, Carl looks through the front seats at the now steely profile of their driver. If Will is deliberately trying to annoy her it’s certainly working.

The tension spins out for a minute or so more, and then Will seems to relax, leaning back into his seat.

   “Back when I was with NOPD there was a murder case, a young sex worker, Antonia Vargas. Client had tortured and beaten her to death. It was maybe the ugliest thing I’d ever seen at the time, and I couldn’t figure out why no-one else in the department seemed to care.”

He turns back to look out his window again. Outside the rain is coming down in slow heavy sheets, painting the highway black.

   “Week or so later they told me he’d been picked up, some rich college kid who’d been down for Mardi Gras. Prints were on record for another assault, he had no alibi, the whole thing seemed like a lock. Week later I check back in with the arresting officer, and the guy had walked. Slick lawyer with some bullshit line about chain of evidence. Hadn’t even got as far as arraignment.”

He falls silent, and after a moment Hannibal cocks his head,

   “Am I right in assuming that tonight’s contact features in this story at some juncture?”

 And Will turns to lookout him and smiles, a small dark thing, that Hannibal seems to mirror and amplify.

   “Her brother Gianni. He was a low level player in a drug-running operation out of Belize, charter pilot. He’d heard through the grapevine that I’d been pretty invested in Toni’s case, and a few months after I’d left NOPD he looked me up.”

   “You told him where to find her killer?”

   “Let’s just say I was… _careless_ with some privileged information.” 

He gives a small shrug, 

   “And then later on, I may have failed to mention his name when questioned by my ex-commanding officer over a related homicide.”

The lights along the highway illuminate a large sign over on the right - _Crisfield Municipal Airfield_ \- and seeing it Chiyoh makes a soft impatient sound in her throat. Hearing her, Will leans forward and then nods an acknowledgment. 

   “Turn off here.”

 

It’s only a short half mile or so off the highway, and then the lights of the tiny airfield come into sight. It’s really nothing but a few hundred metres of tarmac crowned with a small wooden office, surrounded by fields and sleepy suburbs, and when the car engine stops all Carl can hear is the faint sound of Fall cicadas. The sun won’t be up for a good few hours yet and the sea-air is cold and moist, lying heavy on the long stretch of runway off to the right. When he cracks the car door open, Cassy seizes the opportunity to make her escape, and jumping over his lap she bounds off across the grass with her tail waving.

The lights of the office building are out, but a hundred or metres or so beyond it sits a small single-wing light aircraft. Against it, a tall lean man is leant smoking a cigarette, looking intently at his cell, but as Will exits the car he slips it away and steps towards him.

   “Mister Graham.”

   “Gianni.”

The two men nod at each other, unsmiling. Looking past him at Carl and then Hannibal, the pilot frowns.

   “You said two before. The old man coming as well now?”

   “No, he’s just along for the ride.”

At Will’s words, Carl feels himself let out a long shaky breath. Although for most of the last few days he’s felt more or less like a bystander, the stress of the constantly changing situation has started to take its toll on him and now hearing the younger man confirm that his part is almost over, he feels relief pour into him like a deluge. 

Taking a few steps across the tarmac towards Cassy, he hugs himself for warmth as he watches her hunt in the grass along the edge of the airfield. For her the whole thing has just been one big adventure, culminating in a fun boat ride, and allowing himself a smile he considers that perhaps he could do with cultivating more of her attitude himself. A little more living in the now, and a lot less thinking about the past. 

Behind him, the pilot and Will are taking the bags from the trunk and transferring them to the plane while Hannibal and Chiyoh stand quietly talking again. This time though, the young woman’s head is bowed - looking at the ground - and as Carl watches, Hannibal reaches a tentative hand out and gently places it on her shoulder. The tableau is a strangely touching one, and it’s a moment or two before his eyes refocus to what is happening on the road behind them. 

A pair of headlights flare starkly out across the small group, as a vehicle turns off the road and into the entrance of the airfield, freezing Will and Gianni in place either side of the aircraft’s door. Beside the car, Hannibal pushes Chiyoh downwards into the driver’s seat and closes the door behind her, before stepping out from behind it, leaning heavily on his crutch. As the lights flare brighter they suddenly change to a distinctive flashing blue and red, and realising that no-one is looking in his direction Carl quickly steps behind the wooden office building and out of sight.

A sheriff’s SUV purrs throatily to a stop between the car and the plane, and the two large figures step warily from either side of the vehicle. He can see from where he’s standing that the driver’s hand is already resting on his weapon, and clearing his throat he looks first at Will and Gianni and then slowly over at Hannibal, hunched low over his crutch and looking for all the world like a hapless invalid.

   “You boys mind telling me what’s going on here?” he says.


	15. Chapter 15

His heart pounding, Carl presses himself up against the side of the wooden office building and holds his breath. From where he’s stood he can see everyone, Will and Gianni stood motionless by the plane, Hannibal leaning seemingly casually on his crutch by the car, even Chiyoh’s face inside it, dimly lit by the dash lights. The sheriff and his deputy, their eyes scanning the group. Everyone’s expressions, like the moment itself, seem to be frozen. 

Finally, having apparently decided to fix his attention on Gianni, the sheriff lifts his chin a fraction,

   “Just going by on the highway and saw the car here,” he jerks his head towards Chiyoh, “There’s no record of any flights leaving here this morning.”

Gianni’s head bobs stiffly on his neck, it’s the first movement he’s made. There's a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, and Carl sees his fingertips stray nervously to his waistband and the gun he has tucked back there.

   “Last minute charter. Man here got a new broke leg, commercial flight wouldn’t take him.”

The sheriff turns his head to look at Hannibal, who - Carl imagines - is doing his very best to play the hapless holidaymaker, shaking his head with feigned embarrassment. Clearing his throat, Will pushes the Orioles cap back and cracks a wide lazy grin,

   “Had some fool idea about coming down here for the weekend and catching our own crab supper. Didn’t bank on the weather getting so bad. Or boats being so damned…slippy,” he gives a wry, self-deprecating laugh, “Guess maybe we should’ve stuck to Martha’s Vineyard.”

There’s a slight shift in the posture of the sheriff, a softening of his features, and the hand on his weapon drops to his side. Beside him, his deputy gives a sharp nod.

   “Strictly speaking you need to file a flight plan in this weather. Fog’s coming in off the bay and visibility’s gonna be bad on takeoff.” 

His hand moves to his lapel, towards his radio, 

   “Lemme just see if I can patch through to the tower in Fredericksburg, make sure you’re all clear. Where is it you boys are heading exactly?”

And in that precise moment, there’s a sudden movement to his right. 

The steel crutch, which up until now the man with the broken leg has been supporting himself with, suddenly seems to slip out from beneath him, and giving a loud cry of pain and surprise he falls heavily to the ground. Startled, the sheriff’s deputy immediately starts towards him to help, and in a sudden overwhelming rush of horror Carl realises what is about to happen. 

Hannibal’s face is turned towards the ground, his mouth twisted in a pantomime grimace of pain, but it only takes seeing the dark glitter of his eyes as the deputy moves forward to send Carl running out from his hiding place.

   “DON’T!! STAY AWAY FROM H…”

And then what happens next seems to occur in slow motion.

The deputy, having reached Hannibal, turns at the sound of his voice, and as he does so the figure on the tarmac seems to rise up from the black surface like an oil-slick brought to life. Hannibal’s arm comes out from his side and, balanced gracefully on one leg, he reaches in and neatly snaps the man’s head around, sending him crumpling lifeless to the ground.

In the same moment, the sheriff hastily pulls his weapon from its holster and points it at Carl, who is still moving forward in front of him, his hands outstretched. He yells a command in a voice suddenly squeezed high-pitched with fear - ‘freeze’ - but before Carl can begin obey, a dark shape comes speeding silently out of the darkness at the side of the field, heading like a black arrow directly towards them. 

And later, when he has to describe it, he realises that the one gunshot he hears at that moment must - in reality - have actually been two.

He stumbles to a stop, mouth open and adrenaline pumping through him like gasoline. A few metres ahead in the semi-darkness, Hannibal stands looking at him, his face a pale hollow-eyed mask. Then, reaching down to the ground, he slides the steel crutch out from under the deputy’s motionless body and tucks it back in underneath his arm.

Carl turns his head. On the ground between the SUV and hut, the sheriff lies sprawled out with his foot at an angle, a black pool of blood forming at his head and one hand outstretched still holding his gun. And at his side lies Cassy, her mouth is open and tongue lolling sideways, looking for all the world like she’s just fallen asleep beside a warm fire.

He can’t move. His feet feel nailed to the ground. Behind him he can vaguely see the pale shape of the pilot Gianni as, shoving the gun he's holding hurriedly back into his waistband, he jogs quickly around the side of the aircraft. Then there's another second blur of movement as Hannibal steps slowly past him, heading off in the same direction. The lights of the SUV are blinding, etching the edges of the scene with yellow phosphorescence, and he barely notices when a third figure joins the awful tableau there.

Kneeling down, Will presses fingers into the side of Cassy’s neck, frowns deeply.

   “He nicked an artery. She’s bleeding out.”

His head turns, eyes searching out his own and when Carl finally meets them, he sees a storm of emotion. Guilt, anger, sadness. Reaching out a hand towards him, he grits his teeth.

   “You need to come here, keep pressure on the wound. If you can slow the bleeding till you can get her to help, they might be able to…” 

His eyes dart to the car where Chiyoh is sat, and as if obeying a cue, the engine starts and it peels away from the kerb. Watching it go, the younger man stares at the disappearing taillights with a look of agonised frustration, before turning his attention back again to the injured dog.

   “Mr. Orr.”

Hannibal’s voice comes from a place just behind them both, but then he steps quietly forward until he’s standing alongside. Carl doesn’t want to look at him, can’t seem to drag his gaze from Cassy, but something about his quiet authoritative tone forces him to. 

Regarding him steadily without a trace of malice, Hannibal looks him straight in the eyes.

   “If you will allow us to take her, Ibelieve I can save her life.”

He nods his head towards the plane,

   “I’ve checked and Gianni has a half decent medical kit on board. If Will can keep pressure on the arterial bleed while we take off, I think I can close it up. It would be the first time I’ve ever had to perform such a delicate procedure at high altitude, but I promise you I will do my very best for her.” 

His lips move in a thin smile before his gaze drifts over to Will, who looks back at him with an unreadable, almost stunned expression. Behind them the Aircraft’s engine guns into life, the prop sending freezing fog wreathing out across the tarmac, and unable to stop himself Carl lurches forward, going down on one knee beside his dog.

Under his hand Cassy’s black sides heave painfully in and out, her breathing laboured, and her large brown eye looks up at him in confusion and pain.

   “Thought you were coming to my rescue, didn’t you girl? Thought you were saving your old man’s life.”

His voice breaks, and Will leans in towards him. The hand on Cassy’s neck is wet with her blood, but the knuckles show white through it as he keeps pressure on the wound.

   “I’ll take care of her Carl.” 

He looks past his shoulder towards Hannibal, 

   “We both will. I promise.”

Together they carefully lift the lab’s body and walk her over to the open side-door of the little plane. Already waiting impatiently in the pilot’s seat, Gianni looks back over his shoulder at them with barely suppressed anger, but one glance at Will’s expression is enough to keep him silent. Jerking his head out towards the highway, he shouts at them over the sound of the engine,

   “More lights coming. We need to go.”

To his side, Hannibal pulls himself up into the plane, opening the kit as he takes his seat and reaching in to hand Will a roll of gauze. Kneeling at his feet alongside Cassy, the younger man nods his head towards the handle on the outside of the hatch, indicating for Carl to grab it. 

_    “You have to close the door. I can’t let go.” _

The plane’s engine roars, and reaching out, Carl cards his fingers gently through Cassy’s dark fur one last time before slamming the door closed. The little aircraft starts to move almost immediately, steering out onto the runway and beginning its slow taxi forward, and through the side window Carl sees Hannibal’s face turned towards him for a instant, before it too disappears into darkness.

The lights on the aircraft’s wings blink red as it speeds up and then begins to climb upwards into the sky, and behind him Carl slowly becomes aware of an answering echo of them, flashing reds and blues that accompany the growing siren wail of approaching police vehicles. Sighing softly, he laces his hands on top of his head and starts to turn to face them, before changing his mind and turning back to watch the two glowing points grow fainter and fainter and finally disappear into the fog.


	16. Chapter 16

**FOUR MONTHS LATER**

 

Carl has just unlocked the backdoor and is waiting for the kettle to boil for his morning tea, when he hears what sounds like a large vehicle making its way down the long pot-holed track towards the house. Surprised, he looks up at the kitchen clock before realising that it’s an hour later than he’d thought it was, and bending to open his cupboard to get out the necessary mugs he huffs a little with annoyance. 

Although he’d eventually gotten used to the near constant stream of visitors he was forced to receive after his return home, the last four weeks or so has felt more-or-less like a return to normal life. After Kara had insisted he change his landline number the calls from journalists had more or less ceased, and other than the occasional scheduled interview - that she coordinated for him - he’s been mostly left alone by the press. Getting down the teabags, Carl grunts good-humouredly at the realisation that (in the end) his fame has been far more profitable for his daughter and son-in-law than for him, although of course he certainly doesn’t begrudge Kara her ‘commission’. Or Mike the pretty considerable compensation for ‘injuries sustained by a notorious escaped serial killer’.

The kettle begins to whistle just as Carl reaches the front door, opening it at the exact same moment as the man outside it raises his hand to knock. Momentarily thrown, Jack Crawford stares at him for a second before breaking into a rueful grin.

   “Hey Carl. Guess you heard the car. Hope it’s not too early?”

Shaking his head, Carl steps aside to let him enter. Behind him two other men stand side by side, but unlike the imposing figure of Jack Crawford, neither of these are familiar to him. Looking back over his shoulder, Crawford frowns mildly at them, seeming almost annoyed to be reminded they’re there.

   “That’s…this is Brian Zeller and Jimmy Price. They’re working a case with me later further up the coast. They used to work with Will at the BAU.” 

He sighs inwardly as the older of the two men grins broadly at them both. 

   “They _really_ wanted to meet you,” he says.

Stepping hastily forward, the older one almost collides with the younger as they both stretch out their hands, and amused, Carl shakes first one and then the other. The dark-haired one - Zeller - looks at him intensely as he grips his palm,

   “So pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Orr. I’ve read all your interviews. This last one in the Post though was…just…wow. I felt like I really got a feel for what you went through.”

The one called Price nods in agreement,

   “They really captured it. The drama, the terror,” he raises his eyebrows questioningly, “The romance?”

Clearing his throat loudly, Crawford gives them both what seems like a warning look and Price takes a step to the side away from him, his eyes nervously skimming around the room.

   “What a lovely home you have here, Mr. Orr. Really…charming.”

 

Carl makes Crawford his tea how he remembers he likes it, black with three spoons of sugar, and taking a gulp the big man gives him a warm appreciative grin. 

   “Never had much of a taste for tea before I started visiting you. You’ll be happy to know you’ve converted me. Even bought myself a damned tea-kettle.”

   “Been a month at least since I last heard from you,” Carl hands the other two men a mug and then takes his own, “To be honest, thought I probably wouldn’t again. Was a little surprised to get your message.”

Crawford nods, his naturally serious face growing more serious still.

   “I guess I felt like we’d bothered you… _I’d bothered you_ …enough. Felt like maybe I used you a little, trying to get my head around what it was that exactly happened here.”

He sighs, and Carl shakes his head.

   “Didn’t feel used. Not by you anyway. I imagine it helped, you coming down here. Knowing them both like you did. Felt like you helped me make some sense of it all too.”

The big man’s mouth softens in a smile, and reaching out he lays a heavy hand on Carl’s shoulder.

   “I’m glad to hear that. I didn’t want you to feel as if you owed us anything. If anything, we owe you. What happened to you…I hold myself responsible for all of it. Mike, everything in Crisfield…” he pauses, “And for Cassy.”

And Carl flinches, he can’t help himself. Looking at the floor, he feels tears prickle the back of his eyes as he remembers how his dog had looked as he’d closed the door on her. Her shallow pained breaths, her frightened eyes, the dark blood staining her fur. 

Reaching for the cupboard above the sink, he gets down the half empty bottle of Dalmore and adds a slug to his tea, before offering Crawford the same. He thinks he sees Price and Zeller exchange some kind of look at that, but he chooses to ignore them.

Sipping at his tea, Jack Crawford regards him sideways. It’s not an entirely readable expression, but having got to know the man pretty well in the aftermath of his adventure, Carl senses he has something he wants to tell him, and seems to be trying to decide how to. Putting his mug down, he folds his arms.

   “Whatever it is you better spit it out.”

Nodding slowly, Crawford meets his demanding look with a calm-eyed, respectful one. Reaching into the inner pocket of his coat he draws out a small plastic evidence bag, inside which is a single colour photograph, and holding it to his chest he looks him in the eyes.

   “Local police down in Varadero followed up a call from the FBI tip-line. Someone reported seeing a man fitting Hannibal Lecter’s description buying fish in a local market. Took them a day or two to track down an address, at which point the smart thing would have been to call us, but they didn’t.”

He holds out the bag,

   “When they got inside, place had been cleaned out. All except for this.”

Reaching out in confusion, Carl takes the clear plastic bag from him and looks at its contents. It’s a second or two before he realises what he’s seeing, but when he does tears start to his eyes without warning. 

Bathed in warm golden sunlight, Cassy’s face looks out at him from the picture, her bright eyes reflecting a pattern of palm leaves overhead. Her tongue lols sideways from her mouth, making her look as if she’s laughing, while beneath it the fur on her chest shines with moisture like it does when she’s been running in the sea. Around her neck is a soft red bandana, the ends of which are being held firmly by a pair of slim tanned male hands, keeping her sitting still for her picture.

Shaking his head, Carl smoothes the plastic out over the image, turning it first one way then the next in the light from the window, before he thinks he can just see it. A small patch of fur on the right of her throat, a little more silvery grey than the rest.

   “Guessing that’s who I think it is?”

Jack Crawford’s brown eyes are warm with understanding, but Carl knows it’s a genuine question so he answers it.

   “Yes, that’s Cassy.” 

His throat tightens with emotion, and averting his gaze he looks down at the floor as he holds the bag out for him to take back. Covering his fingers with his own, Crawford hesitates, before stealing a sideways glance at the two men loitering on his left.    

   “I think we’ve got everything we can from it. It’s yours to keep if you want it,” he frowns, “They obviously left it for you, though damned if I know why.”

Carl draws a shaky breath,

   “Not sure I know either. Not sure anyone can explain how either of those two minds work, except maybe the other.”

Nodding as if in agreement, Zeller clears his throat and looks down at his shoes.

   “I felt like in your Post interview there were some things you left out. You said you’d heard them talking, privately, when they didn’t know you were listening…” his bright dark eyes fix on Carl’s face, “Did Will…say anything? About why he’d stayed with him I mean, after they survived the fall?”

Carl purses his lips. The man’s expression is intense, and beside him Price seems equally as invested in his answer. Looking at Crawford, he’s surprised to see his eyes fixed on the ceiling, with a look filled with exasperation. 

   “You want to know if he said he was in love with Lecter?” 

Carl grunts, picks up his mug again, 

   “They asked me the same thing at The Sun. And The Post. And The New York Times. That red-haired snippet from the crime magazine sat on that chair in there and flat out _told me_ she knew that he was, and that I was a goddamned liar if I said anything otherwise.”

He turns to face all of them with a weary frown,

   “And I told her the exact same thing that I’m going to tell you…”

 

As he closes the door behind them, Carl can’t help but let out a deep sigh of relief. Not because he imagines that he’s finally seen the last of Jack Crawford - although he suspects that this time maybe he has - but because he’s frankly sick to death of visitors who only ever seem to want to talk about one damned subject, over and over again. Looking out through the window, he watches silently as Price and Zeller bicker back and forth in front of the car, before Zeller angrily reaches into his pocket to extract his wallet. The look he gives Price as he hands over a twenty dollar bill feels like it could cut glass.

Shaking his head, Carl looks down at the plastic evidence bag in his hand and lifts it up to the light again, before very gently unsealing it.  The colours of the photograph are vibrant and warm, contrasting starkly with the cold iron-grey of the winter sky outside, and half-smiling now he strokes a fingertip along the line of Cassy’s face, along the curl of her ear, the curve of her cheek. 

Then he walks slowly back into the kitchen, and taping it carefully to the front of the refrigerator, he sets the kettle back on the hob to reboil.


	17. Epilogue

   “You almost ready?”

Even as Will asks the question, he can hear the little impatient edge in his voice, the trace of irritation underneath the words. Which means of course, that Hannibal can hear it as well, magnified many many hundreds of time. 

There’s little response though, maybe just the tiniest hint of a knowing smile as the other man turns sideways in his seat to look at him. Dressed in a far more casual manner than he’d ever thought Hannibal Lecter capable of, and with an iced drink in one hand, he looks every bit the carefree tourist enjoying the last few moments of his Cuban vacation.

   “My bags were packed and in the hallway at 6am this morning,” there’s a slight lift of an eyebrow, “Or is that not perhaps the type of _readiness_ that you’re referring to?” 

Will takes a deep inward breath, and tries his best not to cast around in the now mostly empty room for something that would make a reasonable bludgeon.

   “I’m _referring_ to the fact that you’re still sat here at your desk, calmly surfing the web when we need to be gone within the next fifteen minutes.”

Hannibal’s smile widens, his tanned face turning up towards him with a look of warm delight as he stalks closer. Refusing to be drawn in, Will leans over his shoulder to get a closer look at what it is that has him so absorbed.

   “Oh Jesus…” he says softly when he sees.

It’s yet another interview with Carl, only this one is in the goddamned Washington Post. The picture at the top is a good one, the old man looks well and happy, and behind him Kara and Mike and the kids stand crowded together in the doorway of the cottage, the very image of a happy family. It’s the headline though that’s problematic.

   “‘ _I Played Host To The Murder Husbands_ ’?? Christ…” 

Will’s lips curls and he reaches in to push the MacBook closed, but - covering his hand with his own - Hannibal prevents him. His bright hazel eyes fix on him with the same fond curiosity they always seem to hold these days, and growing warm under his gaze Will slowly withdraws his hand. 

Hannibal tilts his head,

   “Is it the continued use of Ms Lounds’ nickname that bothers you? Or the fact that the popular press still appear to be showing no signs of losing interest in our story.”

Will grunts. The hand that Hannibal has been touching feels different to the other, and now he’s finding it hard to let it hang naturally by his side.

   “I just want them to stop talking about us.”

Hannibal’s forehead creases in a slight frown, and Will finds he has to fight an impulse to reach out and brush away the silver-gold hair that's fallen over it. So he doesn’t. Closing his eyes briefly under his touch, Hannibal reaches out and recaptures the hand he’d been holding before and presses the back of it gently to his lips.

   “If we’d wanted them to stop talking about us, we should probably have foregone filleting that insufferable harbourmaster back in Cienfuegos, don’t you think?”

His eyes glitter darkly, and against all his best efforts Will feels his mouth twisting into an answering smile. Hannibal’s lips caress his knuckles, parting slightly as they whisper between them and along the lengths of his fingers, and watching their path he shivers.

   “We should get going,” he says quietly.

   “Hmm.” 

The other man makes a small sound of agreement, before reluctantly releasing his hand. Will can’t help but smile noticing the hitch in his breathing when he moves to straighten himself.

   “Did you still wish to leave the photograph?”

Hannibal stands. Their bodes are just inches apart now and Will can feel the heat radiating from his skin, warmed as it is by another day spent stretched like a big cat in the sun. Distracted, it takes him a moment before he realises what he’s been asked.

   “If you’re still ok with it? I mean, I know it's effectively  _telling_ Jack we were here…”

Hannibal smirks,

   “After my performance in the fish market the other morning, I would have hoped that was more or less obvious,” his lips twitch further upward at Will’s frown, “Or that was the idea at least.”

   “Either way, leaving it means he’ll be in no doubt. He’ll track every flight, every passenger manifest, he’ll be scouring footage from every camera in a hundred mile radius of here…”

   “ _Will…_ ”

Hannibal’s hands come up to rest on his shoulders, and just like _that_ the tension that’s building there halts abruptly and slowly begins to recede like a tide. 

With a sigh, Will tips himself forward to lean against him, his forehead resting heavily against the other man’s chest. And with an answering breath, Hannibal moves his hand up to push long fingers into his hair, softly cradling the back of his skull. 

   “How many times must I tell you to relax and trust me? Trust yourself?” 

Pressing his lips against Will’s ear, he smiles against the curve of it, 

   “Have you really learned so very little from me?”

   “About the same amount as you’ve learned from me, I’d guess.”

His voice vibrates against Hannibal’s chest, and after a moment the older man’s chin drops to rest on his shoulder, his other hand spreading wide at his waist to pull him closer, and they're alone on the bluff once again. The roiling Atlantic and their whole lives waiting beneath them.

   “That, mi amado, would be entirely impossible,” Hannibal says softly.

 

 

** THE END **

**Author's Note:**

> _Like this fic? Please consider commenting on it and making my day! And if you _ **really**_ wanna show some love, come follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Treacle_A) or on my [Tumblr](http://treacle-a.tumblr.com/), where I also makes Hannigram Manips for my [Insta](https://www.instagram.com/hannigrammanips) of the same name!_


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